Lust and Loving
by In Open Air
Summary: When the love between King and Queen fades, a new love is born from its embers; Aragorn and Legolas must struggle to find the answer to one question, does lust belie something much deeper? M/M Aragorn/Legolas
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I first posted this fic for the 2008 Legolas/Aragorn Fic-a-thon at the livejournal community. So you might recognize it. I've worked up the courage to post it again, here (and this time, no longer anonymously) in the hopes that you can all enjoy it, too. So it is that I humbly present my work. And as a side note, thank you so much to all those people who have already read this, and who said kind things about it!

Warning: this fic focuses on a slash relationship (meaning two males). So if you do not like that, than please do not read. Thank you.

Disclaimer: Lotr, and all characters, places, etc. associated with it are property of Tolkien. I wish they were mine, but they are not.

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Aragorn was frustrated. The day had not begun well. He and Arwen had been arguing. As they had been for some time. They were petty skirmishes, trivialities. But they had been growing of late, in their frequency and intensity.

It was unreasonable of him to ask of her what he had, he knew. The love between the King and Queen, - no matter that in its prime it had burned more ardently than the sun - had faded. As the ships on the Western shore, Arwen's heart had sailed. She had given him an heir, and owed him nothing more. Though she might care for him as a dutiful wife for a cherished husband, and though she regarded him with as much fondness as she would a dear friend, she would not lay with him.

Which left him, as a man, _particularly_ frustrated.

Denied her caresses, there was no one who could relieve him.

And here was the source of their disagreement.

For Arwen was not an inconsiderate Queen, and she understood the needs of men. More acutely, it seemed, than he understood, himself. So she had come to him one late afternoon with a proposition. "Make warm your bed with the heat of another," she had said, wise and composed, and fair. Yet he, to her calm suggestion, was filled with despair. He wanted no other, though he could not deny that his desire for her was no longer. Even as he saw others to be desirous, he restrained himself. His dreams, indeed had been haunted by a faceless creature, clear eyes, and strong voice. Alas! to love another would tarnish her image, for still he held her highly in his heart, despite the cooled embers of their erstwhile ardor. If she could not find comfort in the arms another, than neither would he, Aragorn insisted. To which she had smiled, touched by his loyalty, but more knowing than he.

"I need no other," was her tender reply, eyes brimmed with truth. Elves did not have the same needs, after all, and though their passion was great, it was short-lived. It was a passing pleasure, though one much celebrated. Once their children were born, there was no more need of it; their love was much more profound than a physical act. So the physical act was inessential.

And, she had reminded him, glowing with pride, that she had Eldarion. What more in all of Middle-Earth could she ask for than a sweet child onto whom she might shower her affection? How could she be unhappy when she had a son to raise?

So, she urged him, he should find a lover, and have no shame in doing so. There was not one woman, she told him, in all the land, who would not gladly have him. There were high ladies and virtuous maids, respected and beautiful, within the white walls, who spoke openly of their admiration for him. Surely he could find one to love. Even, she informed him, he had gotten secret proposals, and just the other day she had heard that there were bets placed - though she would not reveal on who or by whom - as to which proposal he would accept.

Yet he could not bring himself to do it. Even with her permission, even with her approval, and even with her hopefulness, he could not. Besides, it was not their rubicund faces that haunted his dreams. That is why the two had begun to argue. Because the neglect of his physical needs was beginning to manifest itself in his behavior. The stress of his position was wearing on him, and without any outlet, any corporeal nourishment, he was becoming irritable. In his dealings in the court, when once he was patient he was becoming curt and cold.

Arwen was not the only one to notice. Aragorn's advisors, too, showed concern for the erosion of their Lord's temperament.

The King sighed. He had left the Evenstar too heatedly. At the last moment, he had stopped himself from any words uncouth, and for that he was relieved. She did not deserve the venom of his tongue. She was his trusted confidante, honest and true. A familiar face in a sea of less sympathetic ones. All she had meant to do was help him. Even if her help insulted him, trying to find him a lover.

Now, however, hot with argument, rifted by indecision, he huffed down the halls of the citadel, a storm of moodiness and guilt. Noblemen and advisors, servants and soldiers, they avoided him indiscreetly. When he was angry, none but the lofty Queen herself were bold enough to face him. Even the rosy-cheeked infant, Eldarion, was known to cry, seeing his father in so distrait a state.

He passed Faramir and a gaggle of his loyal men, gathered round a pillar. They were discussing something, with much fervor, collecting coins, and making marks on a crinkled parchment. Aragorn could only guess that it was on the upcoming archery tournament that they were so frenziedly arguing their wagers. Faintly, he heard the name of an Elven archer, known for his skill and accuracy, as it was thrown about to a hubbub of discord at its mention. But they all became silent as he rounded the corner. Which only served to intensify Aragorn's cross mood. He continued heatedly on his way.

As the gloomy King paced the parapets and prowled the passageways, he spied a lone steed rounding the winding city streets, with two riders. A gleam of bright hair, a flash of sharp, shimmering eyes, the wiry frame of an archer. Behind him the rounded helm, the sturdy build, the broad shoulders and bearded chin of an axe-man.

For a fleeting second, his heart fluttered. Then his brooding brow down-turned once more, falling into the all too deepened groove. They were late, he remembered. Their missive he had received some days past. It had promised a swift arrival, upon the thoughtful request of the Queen. It had been written in a friend's hand, and dated with the day of their departure. His lips slipped into a frown. He had missed their cheerfulness greatly, and though he knew that they were strong and brave and could aptly defend themselves, he still worried of the perils they might encounter.

Perhaps something had happened to slow their journey? Perhaps something grave? Orcs, outlaws, bandits? There were many dangers, still, plaguing Middle-Earth, and the shadowy places of the realm. Beyond his borders he could guarantee no safe passage, and these two travelers were wanton pursuers of the far reaches of his lands and past. As he watched the lanky steed's progress, he imagined that its powerful strides were not long and swift, but slow and arduous. On its speckled flanks he imagined he saw flecks of red, and not the dappled brown of a glossy coat. And the elegant curve of the archer's straight back he envisioned slumped, the solid stance of the short one unsteady. He made for the stairs, rushing down them in bounds. He saw the pair dismount. His heart was jumping into his throat.

He called to the gates to open wide, and to the guardsmen to the aid of the approaching pair. The soldiers clamored into action, surprised by the presence of their King and by his demands. The colossal gates were slowly swung open, with screeching complaint on their great hinges. In front of them stood two wide-eyed, weary, yet completely wholesome travelers. Their horse stamped its feet, having been startled by the loud moan of the gates. The archer ran his long hands down its muzzle, murmuring soft words of comfort. It calmed quickly under his touch.

"Goodness, that was unexpected!" grumbled the short one, gruff and glaring, suspicious and alarmed. "Not a decent welcome at all. I do not blame the beast for starting."

"Well, Gimli, you cannot help yourself."

The collecting soldiers began to whisper, their chatter growing louder. The King pushed through their throngs, and stopped abruptly in front of the two newcomers. He grasped the taller one by the shoulders, leaning over him and checking him from head to foot. The object of his inspections remained still, bemused; concern ghosted his fair features. Aragorn stood straight again, hands resting on either stalwart shoulder.

"You are unhurt!"

The fair one blinked. His stout companion guffawed. Then from the beard-covered throat rose a rolling, rough, rich laughter. He slapped a thigh. The taller one's lips curved downwards, and upwards again, wavering between a frown and a grin.

"Priceless!" spluttered the stout one with laughter again, pulling off his helm, tears in his crinkling eyes. "You hear that, Legolas? He is _surprised_ that you are unhurt. Oh ho ho, Aragorn, you have outdone yourself."

"So have you, Gimli" shot the bewildered Legolas at his robust friend. Gimli only laughed louder. Turning back to Aragorn, Legolas bowed. On his face he wore a good-natured brightness. Beneath it was scarcely masked the traces of uneasiness. This was not a creature incapable of humor at his own expense, but the King's fretful manner of approach had been all too convincing for jest. Having been the recipient of that fretfulness, he was even less confident that it was an act. Although, he thought passively, if it had been an act, by the sea and the stars it had been a good one, definitely deserving of Gimli's applaud. "Aye, I am unhurt. My Lord, wherefore should I not be hale?"

Aragorn narrowed his eyes at the Elf, as if he were collecting himself. Legolas was not blind to the fleeting wave of confusion that washed across the King's noble brow. In an instant it was gone. Hidden away.

"Wherefore not?" Scoffed the Dwarf. Legolas flashed a glare. "Do not turn those steely pools on me, my friend." Gimli shook a finger. "You have been royally duped."

Legolas could not help but crack a smile. When he looked back at the onetime ranger, he could find no remnants of confusion. Aragorn was stealthy. Mayhap that was all it was. If so, then Gimli was right; he had been duped.

Aragorn shook his head. Legolas was unhurt. Gimli was unhurt. He had imagined it all. It had been too vivid, the scene his mind had so deceitfully woven. His foul mood had spun a fouler vision. Perhaps this ordeal with Arwen was effecting him more deeply than he knew. His thoughts were in turmoil. It had taken his concern for his friends and morphed it into something dreadful. Such was the power of a mind distraught. He knitted his brow.

"In so grim a city, a chance for good cheer makes a jester of e'en the sternest kings," smiled Legolas, placing a hand over Aragorn's and thinking that he had let down the man by not participating in his joke. "Well met, my Lord."

Aragorn laughed, too tensely, pressing their foreheads close in a comrade's embrace.

"So it seems," he rubbed his neck self-consciously. He could feel Legolas' keen eyes upon him. "Well met."

They pulled apart. In the sunlight, Legolas' face was undeniably resplendent. Warm skin and softly flushed cheeks. The graceful arc of his brows, the long lashes, delicate, gently sloping nose, the tug of his lips as they anticipated a smile. His jaw was strong, and elegant. His hair glimmered like gold, in the sun's gilded rays. His eyes, like clear jewels, ever emotive, kind and watchful. Sharp yet yielding. Intelligent yet curious. He did not fit with the grey tones of Minas Tirith. Legolas blinked once more, perplexed by the King's studious stare.

"He is easy sport for any jester," Gimli chortled, elbowing his lithe companion in the side and interrupting Aragorn from his ponderous gaze. "King or fool."

"And which might you be?" Quoth Legolas, lips in the tight line of a smirk. The horse huffed loudly, air rushing from its nostrils in a snort. It had learned, on the long journey, to cut short these witty jibes ere they could mature into arguments. As friendly as the two riders might have been, it was too much for any creature, man or beast, to hearken overmuch to their banter.

Aragorn smiled, watching Legolas puff out his chest to have gained the last word, Gimli narrowing his eyes, twisting his beard indignantly. It was good to have them within the White City once more. Their presence was uplifting. The two carried with them an air of warmness and old wisdom, and yet also a youthful spirit despite their ages. The King took much pleasure in watching the sunbeams dance in the Elf's eyes, swirling and twinkling. He placed a hand on Legolas' back, urging him and Gimli to walk beside him. He called a soldier to him, to relieve Legolas of his mount.

"The servants will tend to your packs. So come, my friends, and tell me of your travels, for it has been too long since last these stones heard your tales."

"Not just the stones," smiled Legolas.

Thus the pair told the man of their most recent journeys. But as happy as Aragorn was to have the two in his company, they did not entirely dispel his agitated mood. In fact, the scene he had made caused a burning, spitting pit in the bottom of his throat. But he knew one way to remedy it, and he led them, subtly, towards a place that never failed to bring him joy.

The King's weathered hand remained, as they walked, rested on the small of Legolas' strong back. On his palm, Aragorn could feel the comforting warmth of his skin, through his silky garb. Oh how he missed the touch of skin, he mused. He could feel the way the sinewy muscles moved with each step. Still, the gesture was friendly enough, and Legolas thought nothing of it.

They passed throughout the citadel, three idly chattering specters amidst the courtyards and corridors. Yet Aragorn did have an aim for their seemingly aimless stroll. He had a surprise for them. Little Eldarion could totter on his own, and he would have his companions witness his son's tiny strides. The babe would be in the nursery, now. Just laying down his head for a midday nap.

He poked his head into the door. The nursemaid did not like him to sneak in to see his son before naptime. She worked hard to put him to bed, and Aragorn too frequently riled the child up, negating her efforts. She would not like that he had brought visitors.

"Ah, she is not here," Aragorn breathed, relieved. The room was empty, shades drawn but for a shaft of white light from the window panes. Outside, birds chirped lullingly. Two little eyes peered out of the dimness, curious. Gimli clomped into the room.

"Aragorn, where are you -- Oh!" Eldarion's eyes latched onto the dwarf. "A little one."

"Certainly no one as little as you, Gim - Oh!" The infant's eyes flashed to Legolas, trailing behind the Dwarf. The Elf stopped in the door. He mimicked the babe's intense scrutiny, only his lips twitched into a grin. "Eldarion."

Aragorn walked over to the curtains and threw them open. The noonday sunlight flooded the nursery. "The nursemaid will have my head, but as it were, it has been a year since last you saw my son, and so I must needs show off his improvements."

"Improvements?"

Aragorn beamed. "You shall see." The King reached into the crib, picking up his son, and embracing him. Then he plopped him into Legolas' arms. Legolas took him unconsciously, and gracefully, but was surprised nevertheless to find a child suddenly against his chest. He was unsure of what to do.

"He is heavier," announced Legolas, though he was no strain on muscles accustomed to a taught bow. The boy looked up at him, shrewdly. He had a strong gaze, like his father's, that the Elf recognized immediately. "To think it has been only a year! And already he is a character."

"Only a year, Legolas! That is a long time. More so for a babe," spouted Gimli. Legolas scratched his head.

"I suppose you are right," Legolas conceded, gently reclaiming his hair from Eldarion's reaching hands. The boy looked up at the Elf again.

"Yes," said Aragorn with a grin. "Now, open your mouth." Legolas looked at the King, puzzled.

"Not you, the child." Gimli elbowed his willowy companion in the rib.

Eldarion did as he was told, opening wide his mouth. Three teeth poked through pink gums. The tiny lord was extremely proud of them, displaying them as though they were real pearls, and not just pearly white.

"A fine start," chuckled Gimli, gruffly, un-entwining Legolas' hair from the chubby fingers that had tangled it despite the Elf's best efforts. "But do not eat these longs locks with them!"

Eldarion looked momentarily appalled that the Dwarf would suggest such a thing. Still, he could not deny that he had an inexplicable urge to put everything into his mouth, to the great frustration of his caretakers. His fingers rewove themselves into the Elf's soft strands. The sun glinted off of them and made them irresistible. He fiddled with the neck of Legolas' shirt, instead, to prove his restraint.

"There is one more thing that I would show you, ere the nursemaid finds us. His greatest accomplishment."

Legolas kissed the boy's forehead, pushing back his bangs. "Greatest, you say? Pray tell."

Aragorn nodded.

"He will show you for himself. Put him on his feet," said the happy father, eyes crinkling. Legolas looked at the man, alarmed. This was an infant he held in his arms, not a toddler. Surely he would topple over.

"But what if -"

"You shall see. If he falls, I shall take the blame." Legolas bent down, cautiously, and set the boy on his feet. Yet he was hesitant to relinquish his grasp. The stone floor was hard. He glanced up once more at Aragorn, who nodded reassuringly. So Legolas let the child go. And to his surprise, Eldarion did not fall but stood sturdy as a rock, peering up at the three.

"Wonderful," said Gimli, face warm with tenderness. "A veritable Dwarf! Ever steady!" The child romped towards his crib, lifting his feet high, and confidently, but comically in the way of young walkers.

"Oh!" The boy began to tip. Legolas leant swiftly down and caught him, ere his rear could hit the ground. Aragorn scratched his stubble.

The image of Legolas with the little child in the crook of his arm struck him as oddly attractive. The way he smiled goofily at the boy, and let him tug at his hair. As if for the first time, he realized the Elf's allure.

"Excellent catch," said a kind, feminine voice. Arwen stood in the doorway, the humor in her tone proof of her witness to the display. Her rich, black hair was like the night, and her pale complexion, the moon. Her skirts shifted as she walked. Aragorn's face darkened.

"My lady." Legolas bowed, as best he could whilst holding Eldarion. The child giggled with the motion. Gimli bowed much more deeply, unhindered. Arwen held up a gracious hand, waving away their formalities, though she appreciated their respect.

"I see that you three have interrupted Eldarion's nap." The boy reached for his mother. Legolas handed Arwen her son, who yawned into her chest. She stroked his dark head.

"Forgive us, my Queen," replied Gimli, his deep timbre full of admiration. Arwen tilted her head.

"Wherefore, Master Dwarf? You have committed no offense," she placed a palm on his shoulder. "It is the nursemaid you have to fear, not I." She whispered to him, gently. Gimli chuckled once more.

"I have heard her mentioned many times now, by Aragorn."

"Have you now?"

"Aye, M'lady, and always with a tremor of dread. Tell me, is she so worthy of the King's trepidation?"

Arwen lowered her voice. "Most assuredly."

Legolas and Gimli laughed. They noticed, however, that Aragorn was not laughing with them. In fact, Aragorn was no longer with them at all. There was an empty space where once had stood a man. Arwen sighed.

"Where did he go?" Wondered Gimli, looking around. "He was just here."

"He slipped out. Even I scarcely heard, but I saw his foot disappear round yon doorway," said Legolas.

"And why did you not stop him?" Gimli huffed, stepping towards the Elf. Legolas rubbed his chin, pensive.

"He did not seem to want to be stopped. I do not think he would have listened had I asked him."

"Well what does that mean?" Grumbled Gimli, agitated as per usual by the cryptic way his companion spoke.

"His mood turned foul, is what it means. Or his features did. Yet I do not know why."

"I hope he was not insulted by my words." Gimli frowned. He had not meant them as a slight, but as a jest. He knew Aragorn, and jibes had never bothered him before. Gimli tugged at his beard.

"Nay Gimli, it was not your words," said Arwen, sadly, knowing distinctly the reason for

his flight. "He left because of me, I am sure."

Legolas and Gimli raised their brows. Arwen had said nothing harsh. Why should Aragorn be displeased with her?

"Who would quit your presence, Lady Arwen? Verily, it is an honor!" Cried the Dwarf. Legolas rolled his eyes, though he did not disagree. Gimli was ever the gentleman when it came to the female sex. They, unlike Legolas, did not have to hear him belch, and thus were always charmed.

"My Lady, wherefore should Aragorn leave because of you?"

With a sigh, and two slender fingers poised against her temple, the Evenstar sat slowly into the rocking chair. Eldarion was asleep. Just to make sure, she glanced down at him ere speaking, cupping a hand over his ear.

"We have had an argument," she said lightly. Her eyes met theirs with a wistful regret, though they did not understand it. Legolas blinked.

"It must have been an argument of great magnitude, my Lady, to conjure so sorrowful a tone." There was a hint of questioning in his sympathetic reply, though he did not voice it directly.

"Yes," she looked briefly away. "But no matter! Do not let our silly quarrels spoil your gay arrival."

"But certainly you can confide in us your grievances," quoth Gimli, heartbroken by the selflessness of the Evenstar. She leant him a grateful smile.

"That is a generous offer, Master Dwarf, and one that I shall keep in mind. But for now, I do not think that our Lord would appreciate my revealing our private matters without his consent." She thought for a moment, catching the crestfallen expression on the Dwarf's face. "Nonetheless, there is one thing that you two might do for me." Gimli lit up.

"Anything, my Lady."

"Aragorn has been. . . frustrated, as of late. Burdened by our recent dispute, he is quick to lash out. Please be as sympathetic to him as you are to me. Company is what he needs. Indeed, desires, though he will not say it." She paused, and whispered quietly to herself, "tho' perhaps of a different sort." Gimli did not hear it, but Legolas did, and was puzzled. Still, he did not reveal his puzzlement to the Queen, and was happy to comply with her request.

"You have our word, my Queen," said Legolas, bowing low. Gimli did so, as well.

"We will go now to find him, and assuage his foul mood." Gimli turned to Legolas. "You have a curious song, recently acquired, that you had wished to sing him, did you not, Legolas?"

"I do. A joyous one, well-fitting our duty of cheering the glum King. So fear not, Arwen. Your dear Aragorn will be tapping his foot to my happy tune ere sundown." He headed towards the door, Gimli bowing once more and rushing after him.

"Slow down, troubadour, lest you lose your bass line!"

Arwen laughed as they left, her heart lightened. Forsooth, if anyone could brighten Aragorn's day, it was this pair. She had faith in them, and though mayhap they could not relieve the man physically, they could relieve his mind. She kissed Eldarion on the forehead, rocking him contentedly.

Legolas and Gimli found Aragorn in the courtyard, sullenly watching the fountain bubble. They approached him cautiously, and Legolas made an effort to put sound to his step that he might make his presence known. Even so, Aragorn was startled when they announced themselves.

He had been brooding, mind stuck on something new and alarming. It was not his wife that had sent him fleeing from the room - though she played a part - but a shocking urge, followed by a crushing guilt. He could not understand the source of either. Yet the resounding wave remained.

"My Lord?" A soft and concerned voice was at his side. Slight fingers on his shoulders. Their touch made him shudder, and so they withdrew. "Aragorn, are you well?"

"Aye, my friend," Aragorn said, turning to face the unlikely pair. He put a smile on his face, but it felt more that he had pulled it there than it had come naturally. "I am well."

Both Elf and Dwarf raised a skeptical brow. The King chuckled dryly. "You do not believe me?"

"We do not," they said as one, taking a seat, on either side of him.

"But," began Legolas.

"We have come to remedy that," finished Gimli. It was Aragorn's turn to raise his brows.

"Oh? How so?"

"Why, with our company," grinned the Elf.

"Ah, I should have guessed."

"Yes, and your treatment begins now," quoth the Dwarf, pulling a lute from hindmost his back. He began to pluck the strings, tuning it to the proper pitch.

"Now where did you find that?" Asked the King, growing, as the two had promised, more cheerful by the second. A lute was a peculiar instrument for the pair to have. It meant that they were plotting something.

"Did you not know, my Lord? Gimli has ever been the skilled musician," said Legolas.

"Marry, I have played for the sparkling gems of the glittering caves - a most appreciate audience - and the twisting trees of Fangorn." There was a ping of agreement from the lute. "Thought you Elves the only creatures with a knack for composition?" Said the stout Dwarf with a hearty strum of his lute. "Well, Legolas, in that case let us show him the minstrel in you!"

"And the picker in you!"

Gimli began a quick and merry thrum, stamping his foot in time. The chords were warm, the lively ditty of a pub. A drinking song.

"You two scoundrels!" Grinned Aragorn, realizing what it was. Legolas tossed him a wink, uncrossing his legs, and tapping his own foot with Gimli.

"Wait until you hear the words," chortled Gimli. Legolas nodded, and opened his mouth, stomping his foot now just as loudly as Gimli.

_Ho! to the tavern we shall go_

_and have ourselves a row or so_

_and all sit by the fire._

_For here's a tale, of Harrowdale,_

_That needs no bard or choir._

It was Gimli's influence on him, no doubt. Aragorn knew that the Dwarf had more than once dragged his friend with him to the inns. So it was not unbelievable that the Elf could have picked up the hearty flavor to his tone thereat. Then again, the Mirkwood Elves were known to have a love of wine. So perhaps he had always known how to make a man nostalgic for a tankard and a crackling hearth.

_In Underharrow, the gents exclaim_

_A finer dame they never saw, than buxom Lady Lane!_

_She tied her hair,_

_in ribbons fair,_

_and put the maids to shame._

Legolas' voice was strong and bright. Aragorn had never heard that lilting timbre leant to a drinking song such as this - Legolas was not wont to sing such tunes - but hearing it now, it sounded more entrancing than the most eloquent of epics. He would, now and again, make his voice more husky to better match the color of the song. When Gimli's low gravel joined the clear tenor, harmonizing perfectly, Aragorn could not help but crack a genuine smile. Legolas watched him with a twinkle in his eye.

_From Upbourn came a suitor, to try his hand at Lady Lane._

_A finer blade she never saw, than bawdy Master Hane!_

_He slicked his hair,_

_and shined his boots,_

_and put the lads to shame._

Anon, Legolas stood, swaying to the tap of Gimli's foot, and singing all the more cheerfully that his listener should find it humorous. After all, this was not a song for quiet admiration, this was a song for dancing, and drinking, and laughing. So he offered Aragorn his hand, which the King hesitantly took, and swept him into a whimsical jig.

_In dear Harrowdale,_

_She served him ale,_

_And every night, without a fail_

_He'd find himself inside a jail._

_For should a lusty gentleman_

_Ask the lady for her hand,_

_Drunken Hane could not withstand,_

_On their face his fist to brand._

_He'd start a brawl,_

_Then to her crawl,_

_Professing in a slurréd drawl_

_That for her love it was he mauled,_

_the gentleman and all his band._

At first reluctant, Aragorn let himself forget his worries. Caught up in Legolas' jollity, he grasped the Elf's hand more confidently and swung him close, spinning and swirling as at a ball. Legolas, glad to have his friend in good spirits once more, did not mind in the least. He let Aragorn lead him, feeling the strong hand fall into place around his waist to guide him.

_In dear Harrowdale, where Snowbourn splits in twain,_

_The richest men in all the town, are not fain to complain._

_The barkeep sells poor Hane the ale,_

_Yon jailer keeps the bail._

Aragorn reveled in the sinewy form in his arms. It moved in sync with him, anticipating his step, and yielding to it. Legolas' hand was smooth wrapped in his rough palm, and his waist slender. The courtyard blurred around them as they spun such that naught remained save for the earthly sensation of holding another in his arms.

_Ho! to the tavern we shall go_

_And have ourselves a row or so_

_And all sit by the fire._

_For there's a tale, of Harrowdale,_

_That needs no bard or choir._

The words came to an end, but Aragorn hardly noticed. Gimli continued to strum lightly on his lute, slower and slower until the last chord, which resonated in the strings and in the courtyard. Aragorn slowed also, until he, too, came to a stop, entangled in an embrace that for him had somehow transformed itself from something friendly to something much more intimate.

Clearly, Legolas did not think so, from the comic way he mimicked the King's interlaced fingers at his lower back. He leaned in sillily, and gazed up at Aragorn, face a perfect image of loyalty and brotherly love. For him, their closeness was comradely. Clearly, his goal was to cheer the man only.

Aragorn pressed his brow against Legolas', both breathing quickly and loudly after the dance. He could feel the fast rise and fall of the Elf's chest against his own. His skin was warm. The King stared deep into the orbs below him, filled to the brim with unbridled, unselfish, happiness. Then his own eyes began to trail downwards, over the full lips, long bared neck, the tight muscles, and slim hips. He could feel the curve of a sculpted back, and just below, imagine the swell of hindquarters. He had an intense urge, more intense than anything he had felt in many years, to kiss bestow a kiss on the lovely creature so yielding in his arms.

"Alright, lovebirds," chuckled Gimli, laying down his lute on the bench with a twang. Legolas pulled away, turning towards the Dwarf. Aragorn sighed at the loss.

"Very funny," retorted Legolas, with a roll of his eyes. "Aragorn and I are but friends."

"Oh, I do not know," said Gimli with a smirk, idly plucking his lute. "You were awfully close. Almost as if," he puckered his lips, raising a thick brow, "you wanted to kiss."

Legolas plopped down on the bench, unaffected, next to his compact companion. He snatched away the lute. Neither noticed Aragorn's blanch.

"Think what you will, my diminutive friend. Aragorn and I are no more lovebirds than you and I." Legolas fiddled with the instrument.

"Are we not lovebirds?" Simpered Gimli, feigning hurt. Legolas laughed, shaking his head.

"There, there." He played a short scale on the lute, his tongue peeking out as he concentrated on the fingerings. "You know my love for you is far more passionate than any love between birds might be," he quipped, kissing the Dwarf lightly on the cheek. Gimli blushed.

"Baah, what have I told you about doing that," he spluttered, embarrassed. Legolas pretended to study his fingernails, sticking out a lip in what wavered between a pout and smug satisfaction.

"He doubts my adoration, Aragorn, and then rebuffs my affections. What am I to do?"

Aragorn was not listening. He had fallen into deep, serious thought. "Hm?"

"Oh, do not drag him into this, you feather-brained Elf," Gimli scolded. "Aragorn, ignore him. Attention only encourages him."

It was not difficult for Aragorn to comply. Indeed, for the rest of the day, his mind was elsewhere. Even when they went for a peaceful ride, the feathery clouds lazing across the blue sky, and the breeze lilting across the grassy plains, the King seemed preoccupied. His head had been filled with images of flowing hair and strong thighs. And although the object of his mind's obsession was quite oblivious to his stolen stares, Aragorn perceived that the other, whose keen eyes had grown accustomed to keeping a close watch on his companion - dangers, he knew, could spring up at any moment - had noticed.

And that other, Aragorn felt, was beginning to guess that his odd distractedness had more suspicious sources than simple marital strife. When the Dwarf might catch him, gaze latched too long on their happy companion, an unconscious warning seemed to flash across the broad, bearded face. Then, as quickly as it had surfaced, it would dissipate into the stern friendliness Aragorn was accustomed to.

When the three sat down for dinner that evening, Aragorn could scarcely remember how he had arrived at the table. His memory was a blur of smiling Elves and grumbling Dwarves. And for all the pleasantness his friends had poured upon him, his thoughts remained absorbed with one staggering dance. The elusive touches. The slender form. So, when all had parted to their chambers, Aragorn lingered, pondering these things.


	2. Chapter 2

A lone, flinty figure at the head of the table, the King cast long shadows in the empty dining hall. He sat, hunched, chin in his palm, and eyes locked on the licking flames. It was quiet, save for the popping fire, and the occasional muffled clip of distant footfalls. The orange and yellow flickers in the hearth painted a face for him, and he turned swiftly away, seeing his friend's image in such passionate tones. He scrunched shut his eyes, placing his forehead to the cool stone of the tabletop.

So what if his physical needs had been neglected? That did not give him an excuse to yearn for a comrade. For that was what he realized he had done, all the day through. And he had felt a fool for not understanding it earlier. It had been too long, he sighed, since such a feeling stirred inside him, so he had been unable to identify it. But now, knowing its name he wished he had not recognized it. He wished he had remained ignorant. Now he imagined he heard the Elf's soft voice. He groaned, covering his head with his hands. The sound would not go away. Then there was a touch on his arm. He sat up, surprised at its realness.

"Aragorn?"

It was Legolas, the wavering shadow he cast proof that he was no specter of an overburdened imagination. Nay, too solid was the alabaster hand to be apparition. Aragorn gasped when he saw that he held the slender digits in his own, and quickly released them, as if they singed his skin. Legolas looked down at his unwanted fingers, puzzled that they should be so adamantly rejected.

The Elf tilted his head to the side, concerned and confused.

"My Lord, are you well?" He asked, gazing down at him with the stained-glass windows behind his head, and the moonlight shining through in a placid kaleidoscope of color. Aragorn's voice caught in his throat. Then he shook himself back to his senses. He stood, turning away from the other. Legolas stepped towards him, placing his hands caringly, and worriedly on the King's tight shoulders. "Aragorn, you carry too much tension here."

He began to knead lightly at the base of the man's neck. Aragorn moaned, pressing into it. He closed his eyes, feeling himself unwind, feeling heat spread through his fibers. Then down. He opened his eyes in horror, realizing what was happening. He spun around.

"N-none of that!" He stammered, disgusted with himself. Yet when he saw Legolas' face, his heart sank, and he regretted instantly his sharp words. The Elf was hurt - thinking the King's disgust to be with him - though he showed it only briefly. Aragorn pinched his nose, distraught. The sparks of a headache he could feel, snapping in the back of his skull. He exhaled, overwrought. "Forgive me, my friend."

Legolas nodded quietly. He remembered Arwen's earlier words, and felt no reproach at Aragorn's peculiar mood. And though Aragorn did not doubt that he had been forgiven, he noticed, with a pang of guilt, that Legolas kept his hands tucked behind his back, and the hesitant way he stood at his side. Aragorn sighed. Legolas bowed to him, then, and turned to go, perceiving that the man would prefer privacy.

"Wait, Legolas -" Aragorn grasped the other's arm. Legolas stopped, looking back at him. "Do not part with me on these terms. I am not myself." Legolas faced the man again, eyes curious and sympathetic. "Why did you seek me out?"

"It is as you say. You did not seem yourself this day. You scarcely touched your dinner. And when you did not leave with us - Gimli missed your pipe's company - I wanted to make certain that you were well."

"I thank you for your concern," answered Aragorn, exuding a great effort not to meet the other's eyes, as he knew that he would not be able to control himself from glancing elsewhere on the languid form. His headache, spawned from the storm of emotions raging inside him, was growing worse. He brought his hands to his temples. He gripped a chair for support, knuckles whitening.

"Aragorn, I do not think you are well." Legolas leaned near, trying to steady the King.

"Nay, nay. I am fine." Aragorn tried to brush his friend away, to convince him of his soundness. He stood straight once more, to reassure Legolas. Which proved to be a mistake. Almost instantly, he could feel himself falling, having tripped on the leg of the chair. He heard a gasp, but he was confused when it was not his own. More so when he did not hit the floor. Rather, he opened his eyes to find Legolas under him. He had fallen onto the other, or Legolas had tried to catch him. Either way, the Elf had ended up beneath him.

It was as if - though Aragorn felt a buffoon for thinking it - the more he tried to push the other away, the more this day the Valar pushed them together. In this case, quite literally.

He was brought back to attention by Legolas's soft moan. He was rubbing the back of his head. He had hit it on the stone when they had together fallen. Legolas glanced up at the King through wincing eyes. Still, there was a curl of his lips, and he grinned, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

"I told you that I did not think you were well. You are fortunate to have had an Elven cushion."

Aragorn looked down at him, surprised and confused to find himself where he was. Indeed, he became suddenly aware of their precarious position. He could feel their legs entangled, he could feel their stomachs pressed together. And he could not deny the throb of longing that the other's low moan had inspired in him.

"Did I fall on you?" asked Aragorn. "Or did you try to catch me?"

"Both," smiled Legolas, still idly rubbing his head.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Nay."

Aragorn glared at him.

"Why, then, are you rubbing your head?" Legolas froze, frowning. But next he narrowed his eyes, nigh unto playfully. Aragorn half expected him to stick out his tongue.

"Asked the pot who called the kettle black." The Elf raised one thin brow, in the manner of one who knew the wittiness of his remark. "That is how it goes in Westron, no?"

"You!" Aragorn groaned, with a good-natured sternness. "Turn your head. Let me see." Legolas sighed, turning his head as he was told. Aragorn held himself up on one hand, and examined his friend with the other. There was no blood. The Elf watched him from the corner of his eye.

"Will I survive?" There flashed an elusive, mischievous glint in his eye. Aragorn rolled his eyes, and mussed Legolas' hair. "Guh! Still it hurts!" exclaimed the Elf.

"Forgive me. Your insolence spoke otherwise."

Legolas blinked.

"Insolence, fie! And what of you, your royal Stubbornness? How fares _your_ head?"

"Fine."

"I do not believe you."

"Wherefore should you not believe me?"

"Because," said Legolas, "when last my Lord said he was fine, he collapsed on top of me. And also because you are lying." He grabbed Aragorn's head, a hand on either side. "Now let me see you." The Elf mimicked the way he had been so tenderly treated, a lip poised in playful pout as he pretended to concentrate. Satisfied, he kissed the man's brow, and mussed his hair, just as had been done to him. Aragorn blinked in surprise, for it was not often that a subject possessed the courage - or brashness - to muss a King's hair. Aragorn glared in feigned seriousness.

"You would muss the hair of the King of Men?" Aragorn leaned in close. Legolas raised his brows at the severity of the other's tone, eyes widening. That deep, intense, throaty tone. So noble, so stern, and so commanding; it made him swallow. The frown was grave, and did not, like Legolas', quiver into a smile. The Elf pretended to shy away in fear, but the twinkle in his gaze betrayed his amusement. This was the Aragorn he knew.

"Oh, your Majesty, what will you do?"

He lowered his chin, looking up at the man from beneath his lashes, then began to shrink back, trying to get away. But Aragorn pressed into him, using all of his weight. Legolas gasped; though he was strong, he was not so strong that he could escape, even if he was not truly trying. Not with gravity against him. Aragorn was a tall, muscled man, even after his sedentary years of rule. For him, especially in comparison to the Elf's smaller, slighter form, it was no contest to pin him down. Yet, the King knew, that should his opponent choose, he could easily defend himself.

Aragorn's hands descended upon the thick head of hair, tousling it thoroughly. As Legolas was not one to be a passive victim, and also because he did not like to have his hair mussed, he did the same, reaching up with both hands. But Aragorn had the advantage, being on top. In an instant he had stolen the Elf's belt and wrapped it around the thin wrists, tying them to the foot of the table and out of the way. Soon thereafter he snaked one hand down to the Elf's torso, the other lingering on his neck, fingertips feathering over the soft flesh thereat. Legolas' hands slowed, twisting in his tight bonds, his eyes widening again. "You would not!"

Aragorn looked roguishly down at his victim. His eyes gleamed, hair in wild disarray. "I would." With that battle cry - and to Legolas's horror - Aragorn began to tickle his captive in those places that only the King and a certain Dwarf knew he was so sensitive. It was a little known weakness of the Elf, his ticklishness, and one that Aragorn rarely exploited. But now, in the intimacy of the night's concealing cloak, he could not resist.

"Ahaha, Aragorn!" Laughed the Elf, kicking his feet. He wiggled and squirmed, entirely undignified. Few had the privilege to see him thus. But few knew those spots that made him writhe. "Stop! Ahaha. That is unfair."

Aragorn laughed with him. And finally, when the other's eyes were tearing, he stopped.

"I think you have been punished sufficiently," he announced, adoring the undone state of the fair creature, so wholly under his dominion.

"A ha ha, I think so, also," panted Legolas, wiping the tears from his eyes, chest heaving. Aragorn, with crinkling eyes, watched his comrade try to recover himself. If ever his enemies discovered this secret, truly Legolas would be out of luck. "Oh, ho," he inhaled deeply, resting his arm across his forehead, with a brilliant grin. His hair lay disheveled around him, and his breathing had calmed. He puffed a strand off of his face, gazing up fondly at his friend. He smiled, a curve that was little more than the subtle upturn of his lips, but equally as powerful as any boisterous beam, and immeasurably more serene. "Here is the Aragorn that I know."

Aragorn cupped the other's strong jaw, leaning in, and - as he was wont to do - pressing their foreheads together. Legolas' orbs were endless and kind. Aragorn felt at that instant that he could fall into them, and that he would be happy to stay there. The dying fire glowed in them, catching the most captivating array of colors. Yet just as the fire in the hearth was dying, a fire in the pit of his stomach was growing. A burning desire, rolling and licking in the nether regions of his body. A drunkenness seemed to engulf him, as if the warm glow of wine coursed through his veins. Those eyes, oh they were intoxicating.

Closer and closer they drew him, until hardly he noticed his hands sliding down the strong body, or the way Legolas's expression changed from one of kindness to one of questioning. Even less did he notice as he put more and more of his weight onto the willowy creature beneath him, so much that Legolas's breath hitched and became uneven. Just as his lips made to taste the other's, heavy boots clomped into the room, and Legolas turned away.

"Legolas, are you here?" It was the gruff, and rather irritated, voice of a Dwarf.

"Aye!" Called the Elf, recognizing the voice immediately as Gimli's. He could hear his stout friend wandering around, sight unadjusted to the dim hall. "Aragorn, you are heavy," Legolas coughed, the weight beginning to pain him. But he kept on his face a warm smile, not knowing that Aragorn's present nearness had ulterior motives. He was oblivious to the way that the touches had gone from brotherly to something deeper.

The footsteps approached, growing louder. There was a Dwarven curse, and a chair toppled over.

Still, Aragorn was unaware, entranced, as it were. So when Gimli found them, the two remained entangled. He eyed them, suspicious, and raising one thick brow. He crossed his arms.

"What happened to your hair?" He narrowed his eyes. "And your belt?"

"Aha, it is a long story," laughed Legolas, trying to sit up.

"Aragorn, if it is your intention to crush the Elf, you are succeeding," grumbled Gimli, eyes still narrowed slits.

Aragorn jumped, as if he had been jolted back into his body. And the state of the body he returned to surprised him, how hot and bothersome, how tight his clothes, how clouded his vision. Gimli watched closely. Legolas, meanwhile, felt the jolt, and looked at the man with concern. But, shaking his head and coming to his senses, Aragorn quickly stood, feeling, as when they had gone riding earlier that day, the piercing gaze of the Dwarf. In his throat, he could feel a rising shame to have been found, pressing the Elf - as he was sure it had appeared - into closeness. He gulped.

Legolas lay on the ground for a moment, taking a few deep breaths until his ribs ceased to ache. Easily he untied himself. Aragorn had forgotten that not only had he put all of his weight on the other, but that Legolas had born the brunt of their fall. He held out a hand to help his friend to his feet, which the Elf gratefully took. But Aragorn pulled him up too quickly, and so, still somewhat breathless from his blow to the head, and from the barrage of tickles, he stumbled.

"Now it is my turn to catch you," said Aragorn with a smile, steadying his friend. Yet the way his hands slid down to the Elf's trim hips, to Gimli, seemed exceedingly friendly.

"What _exactly_ were you two doing, all alone together? It is well past the midnight hour," asked Gimli, arms still crossed. He glared poignantly at the belt, yet tied to the table's paw. Legolas blinked.

"What do you think we were doing?"

"I do not know, that is why I am asking."

Legolas narrowed his eyes. "Aragorn fell, I caught him, that is all." He was frustrated by Gimli's interrogative tone.

"Hmm."

"Hmm? Gimli, you are a peculiar Dwarf." Gimli's eyes widened.

"_I_ am peculiar?" Gimli exclaimed, disbelieving. It was as if he had meant to say more, but had stopped himself. Legolas stared at him, but Gimli did not say anything more about it. He waved his hand. "Call me what you will, Elf. I am going to bed." He glared sharply at Aragorn. "And I would suggest that you do likewise, my Lord."

Aragorn gulped again, but it was as if his throat were stuffed with cotton, and hard as he tried, his disgust with himself could not be swallowed.

"Aragorn, I think I will go with him." Legolas embraced him, and Aragorn was careful, as he embraced him back, to act as innocently as he could. Because the scrutinizing way the Dwarf turned back to supervise him sent a shiver down his spine, equally as powerful as Legolas' touch. "It is well past my curfew," he smiled.

"Very well," Aragorn sighed, the jest lost on him. He walked with them out the doorway and into the corridor. A weathered tapestry flapped in the breeze. "And Gimli, please do me one favor?"

"What would that be, my Lord?"

"Will you keep a close watch on this one?" he asked, pointing to Legolas, who glared, guessing what the King meant to say. But Aragorn would say it anyways, because from the wobbly way the Elf had carried himself upon standing, he wanted to insure that his friend would be taken care of. Also, although the actual injury was nothing, he needed to in some way, at least, acknowledge Gimli. He felt awkward otherwise, to act as if caught red-handed. Even if that were not so far from the truth. "He hit his head."

"I doubt that could make him act any stranger than already he does." He held up a hand to silence the Elf before he could respond. "But I will do as you say. Heard you that, Legolas? That means no sneaking off in the dead of the night to canoodle with the trees."

They went their separate ways at the corner. Once the two were out of sight, their dissimilar silhouettes engulfed by the shroud of blackness, Aragorn slumped against a wall. He held his face in his hands. If Gimli had not found them, he was not sure what he would have done. Made a fool of himself, for one. Because Legolas was so oblivious to his advances that he blinded Aragorn to them, as well. To the extent, even, that Aragorn had not realized what he had been doing. Without a doubt he would have tried to force the other into something he did not want. The glowing embers of Aragorn's desire, cackling in the pit of his stomach, testified.

He could not deny it, now. Twice in one day he had tried to kiss his dear comrade. He was attracted to him. He cursed himself, once more frustrated to be a man in the presence of an Elf. Legolas, as such, did not suffer from the urges of a man. Just like Arwen. Any deep passion Legolas would ever feel was reserved for a soul mate. And, like most Elves, he was patient, and unswayed by lustful feelings, until the day he might meet the one he was meant for.

Aragorn clenched his fists, and walked, dejectedly, to his quarters.


	3. Chapter 3

Legolas and Gimli walked silently. The night was warm, almost humid, but with a cool breeze. It was pleasant, and, upon changing into light nightclothes, they sat together on the balcony, Gimli puffing his pipe pensively, and Legolas calmly contemplating the stars. The wafts of smoke floated slowly away, as if being drawn up by lapping waves. Soon, Legolas knew, Gimli would go to bed. This was how it often was between them. They would spend the dark hours in quiet company, ere Gimli rested, and Legolas dreamed. Being close companions, they did not need conversation to enjoy each other's presence.

Legolas lay back, tucking his arms behind his head and staring towards the starry heavens. In such a clear sky, the bright pinholes in the night's fabric were infinite, twinkling, farther away than aught imaginable. So he watched them, as one would watch a distant ship. Seeing them, he mused, reinforced his insignificance; but not in a depressing sense. It reminded him of how very small he was in the scheme of the universe, and his connection, even to the far flung, white specks. For, sometimes, the most comforting thing the universe could do for him was to humble him, to make him feel a miniscule thread in the web of it all. And what was more worthy of his humbleness than the heavens? Thus, pondering the outliers of his vision, he could most appreciate those things closest to him.

The leaves shifted in the courtyard below. A wisp of cloud twisted past the moon.

Gimli's thoughts, as he studied his friend, were far more earthbound. He tapped his pipe against his lip.

There was something antagonizing his consciousness.

He respected Legolas, deeply. Therefore he did not wish to offend him. But today, for as highly tuned as the Elf's senses were to all other circumstances, he had proven himself unseeing to the most basic, the most primal. Legolas was unable to recognize Aragorn's obvious attraction to him. And that was dangerous. Because as much as he also respected Aragorn, and for as honorable a man as he knew him to be, he was still just that, a man. A king, but a man all the same, and not incapable of wrongs. So if Legolas did not know how to recognize that, he could quickly find himself in an uneasy situation.

He watched as the other stirred.

"Gimli, what is the matter?"

The Dwarf shook his head, frustrated that his friend could so easily identify his disquietude and yet fail entirely to identify Aragorn's predicament - and it was very much a predicament. He did not doubt that Aragorn was himself disturbed by it. Although he did wonder if Aragorn realized it for what it was. The King had reacted with surprise to his own actions.

Thusly caught in thought, Gimli did not respond immediately, tapping his pipe once more, and slowly exhaling the smoke.

"Legolas, you trust me, do you not?"

"Of course," said Legolas, without hesitation. He turned to face the Dwarf.

"Had I something important to tell you, then, you would let me tell you, no matter what it was?"

Legolas frowned.

"Yes." He had sat up, concerned. "Do you have something important -" Gimli held up a hand that he be silent.

"So you would not be angry with me?"

"By the sun and the stars, Gimli, of what do you speak?"

"Would you be angry?"

"Nay, but -"

"That is all I needed to know. . ." Gimli put down his pipe, taking on a grave demeanor and crossing his arms. Legolas furrowed his brow.

"What is it, Gimli? Now you have me frightened -"

Gimli sighed.

"Legolas, you know that you are very beautiful, do you not?"

A faint blush spread across Legolas' cheeks, a light brush stroke of rose. It was hardly noticeable, but Gimli caught it, and it made him smile. Veritably, it was a charming look for the Elf, one that Gimli felt honored to behold. For it was only around close friends that the Elf let down his guard, and expressed his true emotions so freely. To anyone else, he would have only a cool rejoinder, and collected comport, or some cryptic deflection. But as it were, Legolas tugged at his cuffs.

"I suppose. . . "

"Nay, do not suppose. It is a fact - "

"Master Dwarf, if you are trying to win me over, it has worked."

Gimli chuckled his low rumble. "I am happy to hear that, my friend, though that is not my aim. What I am trying to say is that, because you are beautiful, it is very easy for people to see you, and to desire you."

"I suppose. . . "

"Enough supposing, I have seen it." Gimli's tone grew somewhat darker, as he came nearer to revealing what he knew had to be revealed. "There are those that admire you, and there are those with primal aspirations."

"Gimli, why are you telling me this?"

The Dwarf sighed, then took a deep breath.

"Sometimes a man, even an honorable man, even a _kingly_ man, may fall prey to these primal aspirations. To lust." Legolas' eyes widened. Then he looked away, calculating.

"Aragorn? Is this about Aragorn?"

Gimli nodded, glad to be spared the awkwardness of saying it himself. He had hoped Legolas would be clever enough to pick up on his hint. Legolas began to laugh, holding up his hands.

"I surrender, Gimli. If this is a jest, you have outdone me." Yet Gimli did not begin to laugh. His face was as unmoving as the stones he so loved. Color rose to Legolas' cheeks as he realized Gimli's seriousness, and what he was implying. Then he grew more defensive, standing up. "Dwarf, you are ridiculous if you think that Aragorn lusts for me."

"Remember your promise, you said you would not be angry with me, and that you would listen."

Legolas sat back down, arms crossed. He had promised. And he had also acknowledged his trust in the Dwarf. So he could not ignore him; that would be to betray him. Obviously it was with great consideration that Gimli told him his worries, and obviously they had been thought out.

"I saw him today, stealing glances at you," Gimli continued. Legolas narrowed his eyes, but the Dwarf could not tell if it was with anger, or with surprise, or if it was only that he was listening closely. "I mean him no ill will, surely you must know that. He is my friend, also." Gimli paused. "Perhaps he does not even realize what it is he does. But there is one thing I know for certain: his touches were not altogether innocent. He had a look of lust in his eyes, and it was for you."

"I think you must be mistaken," whispered Legolas.

"At first I did not believe it, either." Gimli ran his thumbnail over the wood of his pipe. His argument would have to be irrefutable if he hoped to sway his friend, so he organized his thoughts. He would have to choose each word with care, and precision. "Do you remember, this morning, when you sang for him?"

"Aye."

"And you remember how I joked. I said that you looked as if you might kiss. I know you do not agree. You were caught up in dancing. However, I was watching," he took another deep dreg from the pipe. "Well, I thought little of this. After all, it was the first time we had gathered together in over a year. But then when we went riding this afternoon, he was in a peculiar state, preoccupied. And I tell you, now and again, he would glance over to you, and his eyes would linger over. . . certain parts."

"I saw no such thing."

"That is my point. You do not see these things, and that is why I am telling you. You were busy reigning the horse. You would not have been able to notice it. But I was your passenger." He could see that Legolas was growing defensive again, anger flashing in the dusk of his eyes. "Just wait. There is more, listen. When I came upon you two in the dining hall - "

"He fell, Gimli, you must believe me. He did not force me to catch him."

"I do believe you. But when I came upon you - and now it is _you_ who must believe _me _- he was going to kiss you. There was lust in his eyes."

Legolas bit his lip, growing uncomfortable with the conversation. He fidgeted with his shirt cuffs. While he trusted Gimli with every fiber, it was difficult for him to accept what was being said.

"Well, so what if there was? Aragorn is a man. You have already said that you have seen men act this way before." Gimli recognized the obstinate tint to Legolas' voice, and he knew it would not do to meet it with obstinacy of his own. So he spoke gently.

"Aye, I have. Yet they were always far away. They could not get to you. Aragorn, on the other hand, is very near to you."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I know that this is a delicate issue, and I would like to have faith that he would never do this to you, but it is only for your safety that I bring it up. As I have said, Aragorn is an honorable man. However, it is not beyond even honorable men to commit dark deeds, swayed by lust. We have seen it." Legolas nodded solemnly, acutely remembering the man the Fellowship had lost, and the cry of his horn. "And there is one dark deed in particular - and I know this only because you have told me - that could spell your undoing."

The trees shuddered, and the moon seemed to pull her inky veil close about her pale cheeks.

"Aragorn would not do that."

"Legolas, we did not think that Boromir would do what he did, and yet he did. It was the Ring that tempted him, but his situation is not so different from the one I am suggesting. The Ring poisoned him with a lust for power, and it caused him to do something he would never otherwise have done." Gimli paused, looking gravely at his friend. "The Ring is gone. What is tempting Aragorn is a natural urge. And it is not necessarily evil, but it can cause evilness all the same. If he were to force you - "

"I understand your concern," interrupted Legolas, a harshness rising in his voice. He closed his eyes, and calmed himself, and when he reopened them the fury therein had diminished to a glimmer. "Nonetheless, I cannot help but think that you are overreacting. For men, lust is a passing emotion, no? If what you say is true, and this is what Aragorn feels for me, then it may pass."

"It may. But if it does not, it will build up inside him. He will be able to think of nothing else. It will consume him, and overtake him. You have not felt it, so you do not understand the nature of it."

Legolas was quiet, gazing across the horizon whither the springtime sun had bowed its golden head.

"Oh, I think I might," said Legolas, with a westward nod, towards the sea. "If lust is as you say, then I know it."

Too sorrowful, that look! Too painful, that tone! Instantly, Gimli regretted his comment.

"I am sorry, I did not mean to remind you of that."

"I never forget it, so fret not, dear friend, you did not remind me," said Legolas, simply. Even at night, he knew the sparkling whitecaps, and shining shores, hidden though they were in the distance. The wind, too, was still flavored with its sharp scent.

"Silly Elf, that makes me fret more!" He pulled at his beard. "But yes, I would imagine that what he feels is similar to what you feel for the sea. As it can consume you, and make you do things that you would not normally do, so too can this lust change Aragorn. Just as the sea can overtake you in an instant, it is this way for men, also."

"Then that is dangerous, indeed."

"Yes, and men lack the restraint of Elves."

"Not all men."

"Let us hope." Gimli puffed at his pipe again, chewing on the end. He was considering all that he had said - if he had accurately judged the situation - when a new thought struck him. A more uplifting one. One that piqued his inner romanticist. "You know, Legolas, this need not be such a dark scenario, if you think about it."

"Oh?"

"Well, lust is sometimes accompanied by another emotion." Gimli, waggling one brow, breathed a heart with his smoke. It drifted past the Elf's nose, who stared at it, wide-eyed, as it dissipated.

"Where did you learn that?"

"The heart? From Gandalf, of course. But do not change the subject." A toothy grin spread across the Dwarf's face, as he leaned nigh. "Have you considered the idea that he might love you?"

Gimli could have laughed at the way the other jumped. He did not, because he knew it would be insulting. Still, it was as if the words had bitten him. The blush was truly endearing.

"I have only just learned that he is attracted to me. So no, Gimli, I have not considered that." Legolas pinched his nose, overwhelmed, and flustered.

"Well, have you considered the idea that you might love him?" Legolas' eyes widened.

"I-I had not," stammered the Elf, growing embarrassed once more. "Besides! We are both male."

"That has nothing to do with it, and you know it. Love is love." Gimli began to grin again, curling from cheek to cheek. Mayhap there was hope for this yet. "Does that mean that you would consider _entertaining _the idea?"

"Gimli, he is married," Legolas said in a low voice.

"Oh, that is true." He chewed his pipe again.

Thinking on this, Gimli began to find it increasingly odd that Aragorn should be lusting over Legolas, when he had married his boyhood love. After all, Arwen was radiant; his lust was disloyal to her. And Aragorn was not the sort of man to be disloyal. Or, for that matter, to lust. He was far too composed.

Then he remembered the talk with Arwen in the nursery. The two were having an argument. What of she had declined to say, but a suspicion rose in him. He would have to ask her more about this.

Because as far as he could tell, Aragorn and Legolas would do each other well. A lover could distract the one from the cruel sea. And for the other, what more could he ask for than to have Legolas as his lover? There would be no threat to the throne, since they were, as Legolas had said, both male. And Legolas was himself enchanting beyond measure. Although he had been initially angry - nay, he was still a touch angry - Gimli could not blame Aragorn for making him the object of his desires.

None of which was to say that he condoned infidelity. Rather, he felt that this was a special situation. For he was an extremely intuitive individual. This being so, upon examining more closely Aragorn and Arwen's 'argument,' he suspected that the word belied the true nature of their relationship.

A year past, even, he had suspected. For, though the pair had never publicly advertised their affections overmuch, saving their kisses for private places, as was appropriate, Aragorn no longer brushed the Evenstar's long locks from her face, or ran his fingers adoringly through the black strands. He no longer wound his arm round her waist, or cupped her chin. These actions he had ever done, as tiny tokens of his love. Yet some time ago, they had dwindled, and now had ceased altogether. Though his veneration of her remained - he did still care for her - it had become changed. Muted, to the warm glow of a friendship. All of this the Dwarf had quietly observed.

It made him sad to see a love fade. Fortunately, he sensed it had been a mutual fade. He guessed, even so, that Aragorn was the more reluctant to admit this. Aragorn, he suspected, had loved Arwen for so long that he had forgotten how to do otherwise. His mind still clung to the lifeless visage of their erstwhile passion, even when his heart was telling him he must move on. This was all only speculation, of course.

None the less, this new prospect - one that he had not considered with his original concerns - that another love might be kindled from the ashes of the old, that! that was enough to make an old Dwarf tear up. That was something magical. Even if he was not sure if Aragorn's lust disguised love, with his worries voiced, he would watch and wait; he would remain optimistically wary.

Yet in all of this, what he had not anticipated was that Legolas might harbor some secret feelings of his own. Certainly, a little fit of stammering was no definite indication. What intrigued him was that the Elf had not flatly denied the _possibility_, as he would normally do. Because, though Gimli was the only living soul to know it, Legolas had professed to him that he had forsworn all ambitions for any romantic sort of love. The sea and its hold on him had stolen those dreams. Too soon it would pull him away, he had said.

Legolas, also, was a reasonable creature. Being thus, he knew that to fall in love would be to risk exposing that love to the sea. And he could not do that.

A smile began to creep across the Dwarven features anew, for Aragorn was no Elf, and thus the sea had no power over him. If there were these latent emotions in both, he swore that he would coax them out.

"You have a scheming look in your eye that I do not like."

Gimli blinked. The Elf had done it again, seen straight through him. If only he could use that piercing gaze to see the truth behind the King's touches.

"Well, you two would make for an excellent couple," the Dwarf offered with a shrug. He said it as if it were in jest, but Legolas did not know that his stout companion was quite serious.

"Do not mock me."

"I am not mocking." Gimli rubbed his chin. "Although I admit, I always imagined you eloping with a tree. Or a flower, perchance. N'er a man."

"Now you are mocking."

"How could you tell?" Gimli hummed, pushing away from the balustrade. He pocketed his pipe. Glancing at the moon, it was two hours past midnight. Too late for him to be awake. Now that he had gotten this weight off of his chest, he would sleep more peacefully. He heard Legolas hop down from his perch. Rather, Legolas let him hear.

"Gimli, thank you for telling me these things. I am sure it was difficult for you." Legolas put a hand on either one of Gimli's broad shoulders.

"You are very welcome, my friend." Gimli stared up at the other. With the stars in a halo around his dark head, he recalled the night the archer had shot down the fell beast of a Nazgul. It was a fitting recollection, he decided. Now that Legolas had been warned, Gimli was confident that they would be able to avoid the disastrous outcome he had feared.

"Even so, I am not sure if I can believe everything that you say. Not for lack of faith in you, of course, but for the sake of the Lord of the White Tree. I have not heard his side of the story. Nonetheless, I accept your observations, and I will take them to heart."

"That is the best that I could hope for." He patted his friend on the back. "I will see you in the morning?"

"Aye. Good night, my friend."

"Oh!" Gimli said, turning in the doorway. "There is one more thing that I would have you promise me."

"What is that?"

"Please do not let yourself alone with Aragorn. At least until he can sort out his feelings. Or you yours."

"Very well," quoth the Elf, settling back down on the ashen balustrade, already pensive.

With a sympathetic nod, Gimli went to bed. He knew that Legolas would linger on the balcony for some time, admiring the night, perhaps dozing beneath its blanket. Eventually, though, he would wander to bed, if only for the soothing darkness of their room, or for his companion's steady breaths - which Gimli knew calmed him into dream. So Gimli fell asleep to the silver silhouette of the Elf against the murk and the moon.

Laying bare his troubles for the stars to survey, Legolas felt some comfort in their ancient wisdom and quiet vigil. The cool breeze stroked his skin, and assured him that happen what may, Arda would not forsake him. So, though an hour flew past, and he scarcely noticed it, he thought a great deal about all that Gimli had said. Just as he had promised, he took every word to heart. He thought about Aragorn, and whether or not, if the man did long for him, there was love. And if there was, what he would do. In his chest, he felt a strange, and unfamiliar excitement.

Little did he know that, on a balcony not so far from his own, Aragorn pondered these same thoughts. To the King, however, the burning points in the firmament were not kind, but callous. He could not face them. They were, to him, as a million luminous eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

For both, the following days passed uneventfully. Aragorn was busied with a myriad of official affairs, and when he was not busy, his interactions with the Elf were much more impersonal than on their first day together. Gimli suspected that Aragorn had been scared by his body's reactions - and perhaps by a sharp Dwarven glare - and was trying to remedy his problem by avoiding it. Legolas, meanwhile, watched the King closely, perceptive now, and mayhap overly so, to any advances. For though he valued Gimli's words, he had to see for himself if the Dwarf's suspicions were well-founded.

There was also a yet mild curiousness about human lust. He had never experienced it before, only a likeness of it for the sea. So he was intrigued, in what he convinced himself was a purely investigative way.

He did notice, too, that Gimli and Arwen had forged a closer friendship. He wondered how it had come about. When he would press the Dwarf for details, he received evasive answers. He had an ominous feeling that the two were plotting.

Then, after four days, when he had seen no sign of the lust that Gimli had so adamantly warned against, and after being constantly cold-shouldered by Aragorn, he decided that Gimli must have been mistaken. Besides, the King's sudden short dealings with him hurt him more than they should. He could only assume that his wariness had insulted the man, or that he had in some other way slighted him. That or, taxed by the court, and by his continued discord with Arwen, he was simply too stressed for friendliness.

In any case, regardless of his promise to Gimli not to be alone with Aragorn, he felt that this was another source of dissatisfaction for the King. For every once in a while, amidst his cool regards, Aragorn would hint that he wished to speak with him privately, and Legolas would politely give an excuse, goaded by Gimli's watchful, and ever-present, supervision.

So it was that he decided to surprise Aragorn, by inviting him on a hunt. Just the two. Remembering the tension that the King carried in his shoulders, he planned to lead him past a bubbling hot spring that would sooth the weary muscles his fingers had not had time to mend. Gimli had found it once, whilst exploring the stonescapes. He had said that the formations promised thermal activity. And lo! they had stumbled upon it. It would be perfect.

Aragorn accepted the invitation, however hesitantly. His constant avoidance of the person he yearned for most was effecting him more and more. By the minute, it sometimes seemed. His counselors all commented on his irritability. Even he had snapped at Faramir, who had sought only to defend him.

He had thus realized that evasion would not work - he had never truly thought it could - and that the only solution could be to confront it. On a hunt, in the seclusion of a deep forest, he felt that he could muster the courage needed to profess his shameful longing, and accept whatever harsh words Legolas might have for him. For he knew that Legolas did not love him in such a way. He knew also that Legolas would not appreciate the degradation to his image. Still, Aragorn hoped that confession would quell the fire in his body. Then, the trek back he could use to try to win back a friendship.

Everything fell into place. Gimli had asked Arwen to let him and Eldarion become better acquainted, and so the three were to spend the day in the sunny courtyards, 'identifying stones, no doubt,' as Legolas informed Aragorn. Faramir was the only one to know of their plans, and he swore to keep them secret from the counselors and advisors, to whom he would proclaim that the King was sick in bed. They would not like that the King was leaving the citadel, unguarded, but Faramir had more faith in the protection of Legolas's keen senses and deadly accuracy than he did in a legion of men. Therefore, there was no one to hinder their absconding.

They departed the great gates a few hours after daybreak - after Legolas had made sure Gimli saw him wandering the gardens that the Dwarf would not become suspicious.

The ride was slow and peaceful. There was scarcely a cloud in the sky, which was painted that day a brilliant sea blue. The sunshine was so bright that even under the coverage of thick boughs, it shone through, casting dappled shadows across their backs, and shafts of light across their faces. Yet there was an agreeable breeze, cooled from the mountains, that prevented the sun from causing them discomfort.

Presently, the paths became too narrow for their horses to pursue, winding between tightly-woven patches of trees. They picketed the steeds, with plenty of line to wander and graze, then proceeded on foot. The small, dirt path snaked around boulders, and up and down tiny crags, whither twisting roots stuck out of the earth and gripped tightly the stones at their feet. Soon it disappeared altogether. Aragorn followed, unquestioning. However, even as Legolas pretended to be hot on the trail of a stag, he was unconcerned when the cleft tracks parted from their chosen path. As it seemed, the tracks that they followed had not been made by an animal, but by Dwarven boots, sometime ago.

The man did not mind. The scenery was lovely. He had not had the opportunity to travel these parts in many years. He had left that up to the wandersome pair. Clearly, they had done well in discovering the most beautiful places of the realm. The birds chirped in the branches, and flitted along with them, tracking their progress. Both hunters held their bows, strung, but it was evident that Legolas had no intention to shoot. Already he had let two wholesome deer continue on their way, offering the excuse that they were too far a mark for him to hit. Of course, it was well-known that there was nary a mark he could not hit, and these deer had been near enough that Aragorn could count the points of their mossy antlers. So Aragorn was skeptical as to why the Elf bothered to carry his bow with nocked arrow. He supposed it would bring Faramir some comfort to know that the King's sole bodyguard was ever at the ready.

In the mean time, as relaxing as the dense forest was, Aragorn was still struck, now and again, by a pang of guilt. Should Legolas, who walked in front of him, stoop to ascertain his bearings, inevitably, his eyes would drift over the slender body, try as he might to pull them away. Alas, he still could not bring himself to confess. Yet, nature offered him some solace, in that there were many other sights to tempt his senses.

At last, Legolas stopped, standing straight, as a sentry, at the top of a scraggly knoll. He turned, with a smile that said that he had something that he wanted to show. With a sigh, Aragorn scaled the stones. Legolas pulled him up the last steps, as they became steep enough that only Elven dexterity could achieve them. There, cradled by large boulders on either side, down whose sides hung vines and thick roots, bubbled a spring. Steam rose from it, creating a warm haze. There were patches of olive moss, and the forest floor transformed itself into smooth grey stone, as if it had been paved by nature's hand. It was tucked away, and there was no trail to it save the one the two travelers had unobtrusively blazed.

A rush of heat hit his skin as he stood fully, then it was tickled by the cool breeze that fanned the clearing.

"A hot spring?"

"Yes. Gimli said that there should be one. We sought it out some time ago."

"Hence the Dwarflike tracks of our quarry."

"So you noticed," Legolas laughed. "For once his heavy steps were advantageous. The earth remembered them. Otherwise I might not have re-found this place."

"And this is the true reason you brought me out here?"

"I thought that its waters might relieve you of some of your anxieties," Legolas replied, gripping a root and beginning to climb down to the cool ledge circling the spring. Aragorn followed, reluctantly. "After all, a spring stays warm longer than a bath. Gimli and I rolled a few stones into it, to sit upon."

Legolas pulled off his thin boots, placing them neatly against the face of the stone so that they would not fall in. The Elf raised a fine brow, curious as to why Aragorn was not doing likewise. Already the man could feel the steam seeping into his clothes and making them heavy. "Are you not going to get undressed, my Lord?"

Aragorn's eyes widened.

"What do you mean?"

"Unless you would rather bathe in your clothes?"

"Nay. . . I do not know if I wish to bathe, with or without them," Aragorn said with a gulp. Already he could see a pale triangle of flesh on Legolas' chest where he had loosened the fastenings.

Legolas looked at him in question.

"So you will not join me?"

Oh, that look. That look that could compel him to the ends of the earths. And it compelled him now, to do as its wearer asked, even if it was more fearsome than the swirling smoke of Mount Doom, to thus test his self-control.

Heaving a sigh, he began to unlace his boots. He placed them next to the smaller ones. Legolas had already removed his armguards and jerkin, and undone his hair. He sat briefly, barefoot, in his leggings and light undershirt. The steam made it cling to his form, and the white fabric, as it was a summer garment, was becoming see-through.

Aragorn tore his gaze away. Legolas had brought him here not to be ogled, but to help him. So long as he did not watch the Elf undress, soon enough he would be concealed beneath the frothing water. He focused on untying his tunic, then his breeches. When he had nothing left to remove, he slid into the hot water. It sent a pleasurable shiver up his spine.

Legolas collected all their garments and folded them near their boots, then joined the King. Aragorn caught a glimpse of toned thighs, and sharp hipbones, and a flat stomach, before they disappeared beneath the bubbles. He bit his lip. He could feel his restraint crumbling. Already his mind painted lascivious scenes.

They sat across from one another, the steam thick around them. Legolas' hair hung over his shoulders, the ends darkened by water. His cheeks were pink with the heat of the spring. Unconsciously, he held his chin high and dignified, as if he sat upon a thrown. Certainly, it was a fitting kingdom over which for him to rule. The unrestrained, unbridled nature matched the wilderness that was so common in the sharp eyes. There was a ruggedness about him, too, that other Elves did not possess, as he was from Mirkwood.

The age of this forest, and of the stones, this also reminded him of Legolas. Because, although he was young among the Elves - much younger than Arwen - he was ancient among men. Older than many of the trees that hovered now above them. Indeed, recalled Aragorn, he had called them children once, in the dark forest of Fangorn. Just as the trees could be silent and indifferent in their wisdom, so too could Legolas.

At the same time, Aragorn felt guilty, because he knew that it was not these aspects of the other that his body wanted; his body wanted the youthful frame, the long legs, the strong back, and the beautiful face. The pout of his lips haunted his dreams, the slender hips his waking hours. There was no escape. Now, his desire had built up like a mass, consuming him, to the point that he thought he might explode.

And he knew, and feared, the danger of letting these feelings stay bottled up. Because one day his resolve would waver, and he might do something horrible. He had the sort of luck that the cork would strike someone in the eye.

He had thought about all of this. Verily, he had thought of nothing else.

Aragorn let his head fall back to rest on the stone. He stared up at the canopy, at whose center there was a shimmer of sky. At least, the water was relaxing. His muscles were loosening. Legolas had been right about that. Even the stones on which he sat were hot. He could feel his worries rising into the sky with the steam.

His mind free of anxieties, free of tension, free of cares, he remembered something, with a clarity henceforth obscured. It rushed over him in a flourish, like the heat, and then like the cool breeze, made him shudder. Then, as startlingly as it had come, it was gone, and he could find no explanation for the flutter of his heart. All he knew was that the answer to all of his desires, and to all of his misgivings, was right in front of him. All he had to do was tell him. That was what he had come with to do. He could not neglect his purpose.

"Legolas, would you come sit by me?" He asked, knowing that if he could not tell him now, in the secrecy and solitude of the forest, he would never be able to. He hoped his friend had not heard the quiver in his voice. Even the quiet trees seemed to watch him.

The Elf waded over, taking a seat next to him; Aragorn watched a water droplet slide down the line of the smooth, pale torso, dipping into the concavity of his navel, then continuing lower. The water rolled down across him in beads, clinging and sparkling like jewels in his hair. His cheeks remained rosy from the heat. He felt their legs brush. He sought out one of Legolas' hands, and held it in his own. The King's hands were trembling. He did not know how to say what he wanted, but he could not back out now, eyes locked with the other. By the Valar, they were alone together!

"I. . . " he looked away.

He drew closer. But the closer he drew, the fewer words he could string together. Legolas looked at him inquisitively. With a worried swallow, and a silent prayer, Aragorn knew that if he could not tell him, he would have to show him.

Thus he let his body take control - rather, it took control of him - and it came naturally to kiss him.

Legolas jumped. Like a startled fish, he almost slipped away, standing with a splash. But Aragorn held him tight, and stood with him, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other holding his head. He felt the other's breath hitch against his mouth, but the touch felt so soul-shatteringly good that he could not bring himself to break it. Rather, he deepened it. Legolas stumbled back, catching himself against the stone ledge.

His mouth opened, and Aragorn dove in. He pressed his entire body against the one beneath him, pinning it in place. His kiss was passionate, and long. And for as forceful as he was in giving it, it was meant to be tender.

Legolas gasped when his mouth was released. Shocked and brain spinning, either from lack of air, the heat, or from the magnitude of the kiss. Perhaps from them all. He felt his lips. They were bruised, and swollen. He looked back at Aragorn, and was terrified by the emotion he saw there.

Aragorn could feel the Elf's heart racing, their chests close together. A smile spread across the man's face, wide, and ecstatic. For the first time in more time than he could remember, he felt like himself. He felt alive. He felt free. It was as if a great burden had been lifted off of his shoulders. To his loins surged an uncontrollable flame. He wanted to feel _more_ alive.

Legolas's eyes were wide; he did not know what he should do. Those ancient eyes, for the first time, were not clear but full of fear, and anger, and hurt, and yet, beneath it all, a cloudiness, a longing. A lust! It was a glimmer, only. Tiny, and hidden. Still, it was there, and it was so powerful, so intense, so new, even as it was latent, that it was the King's undoing.

Aragorn placed a hand on the side of the fair face, tucking a stray hair behind his ear, and kissing him again. Legolas could feel the weathered hands searching his body, feeling him. They came to rest on the small of his back, fingers interlacing, and pulling him closer. And Legolas did not pull away.

So Aragorn bore down more amorously upon him. Legolas could feel the scratchy beard on his neck. He could hear the man groan. And he could hear himself gasp. His back was arching.

Then, suddenly, as if the heavens had fallen onto his shoulders, he was ashamed. He was more confused now than in all the long years of his life. He needed to get away. If he did not, he would be letting Aragorn think that this was what he wanted. And he did not know. His heart raced, and he was certain that his fears were written on his face.

"Aragorn, stop. . . " he was caught in another kiss. He began to push at the other, but Aragorn pressed his weight back against him. He had backed himself into a corner, the stone harsh and unyielding at his back. He startled when a hand moved from his back, lower, and when another slid across the inside of his thigh. No one had ever touched him in these places. It sent a shudder through him, one that he felt reciprocated in Aragorn.

"Aragorn, stop!" He said more forcefully. The cool breeze swept over him, and cleared his swirling head from the peculiar emotion that had overcome him. This was too much. This was unfaithful! What would Arwen think? This was wrong! Ire began to swell in his chest, the erstwhile flutter of his heart replaced by a righteous pounding. His eyes grew dark with outrage, and no longer with lust. The man had not asked his consent to do these things. These touches, this intimate closeness.

He moved against the ledge, trying to use the stone's firmness to help him shove the man away. Aragorn's lips trailed down his chest, over his stomach, down to bite his hip. His fingers gripped the stone.

"Ahaa, my Lord, stop."

Holding tight to the ledge, he used his legs to push the King away. But Aragorn was no longer himself, and the tenderness of his intentions was gone, overpowered by a more forceful urge. When Legolas slipped away, his wrist was painfully snatched, and he was shoved against the rocks, the man at his back.

"Aragorn, you will let me go," said Legolas, with a warning in his voice.

Aragorn ghosted his lips across the back of the marble neck. A tremor of fear passed over the Elf when he struggled and could no longer escape.

Still, sinewy muscles disguised his strength. Powered by the fiercity of his will, and with a blazing fury, he elbowed his attacker, swiftly and soundly in the jaw. Aragorn slipped backwards and underwater with a splash and a shout.

Leaping onto the ledge, Legolas snatched up his clothes, throwing on his leggings without drying off, and not bothering to pull on his boots. He sprang up the face of the boulder ere he hastily tugged on his damp undershirt.

Aragorn surfaced, spitting water. He rubbed his eyes, the heat having stunned him.

"Legolas?" He looked up to the ledge and met a stormy gaze. Two tempestuous seas, thunderous and magnificent. He imagined he could see dark, rolling rain clouds in the steely orbs, and crackling lightning, swirling furiously as if raging inside glass spheres. The chin was held high, brow furrowed severely, in a flash of emotions. The vehemence of his glare made Aragorn remember that this, too, was a son of Kings. Then, as if he had materialized, the creature was gone, disappearing into the leaves without a sound.

"Valar, what have I done?" He breathed, in absolute terror, sensing, despite his spinning head, that something wicked had transpired. There had been soft lips and then. . . and then, what? He could not remember. His mind was a blur of steam and hot water, kisses, caresses, and. . .

The cool breeze swept over him; Aragorn's eyes widened in horror. A flood of comprehension overwhelmed him, and he fell to his knees on the ledge, uncaring if the hard stones bit at them and left them skinned. He clutched his forehead.

Legolas had been struggling against him, had asked him to stop - anon, Aragorn clearly remembered, the warning tone - and yet he had not stopped. He had very nearly, in fact, committed an act so dark, that it froze his heart to think on it. An act so vile and evil that the trees shook with tremulous outrage, that the birds - Valar, the birds, he realized - had stopped chirping.

All done blindly, licentiously. He had not meant to do it! He would not dream of hurting his friend. He had not known his actions as he did them, only the scorching steam and burning need. And now the scathing shame, the sickening guilt, and the face of his victim as he had fled into the forest. Forever, perhaps!

Oh, this was not how he had meant it to be! He slammed his fist into the ground, his knuckles throbbing. The pain was nothing. The pain that gripped his heart, like cutting talons, was all-encompassing, and left no room for competition.

Miserably, he clothed himself. With the trees turning their backs to him, the stones frowning his footfalls, and the dirt hating his imprint, he walked towards the horses. Yet the sad song birds, they watched with pity in their small, black eyes, for a man betrayed by the cackling demons of lust.


	5. Chapter 5

Elsewhere, within the citadel, Gimli could not find Legolas. It was midday, and he had not seen him since early that morn, resting beneath a tree in the inner gardens. Neither could he find Aragorn. When he questioned the advisors, he was told that the King had taken ill, and was resting in his bedchambers. Yet none of the advisors knew the nature of his illness. Shifting through the emptying court, adjourning for the day, Gimli spotted a familiar face. Faramir was chatting idly with a soldier, discussing his stay at the citadel. Faramir spotted him also, and bowed to the soldier to excuse himself, then came to greet Gimli, who he had not seen in a year's time. He sported a puzzled look upon his face.

"Master Gimli, I had thought you would be with your fair Elf friend, and the King Elessar?"

Gimli glared at the steward. Faramir did not know that the Dwarf had searched for the two for the greater half of the morning. After spending many hours with Arwen and Eldarion, he had been gripped by an inexplicable nervousness.

"You did not join the two on their hunt?" Asked Faramir, voice lowered lest any lingering advisors catch wind. "I know you have no fondness for travel on hor -"

"What!" Gimli looked as though he would shake the man by his shirt collar. "They went on a hunt together!?" Faramir took a startled step backwards. He had not realized that Gimli did not known the whereabouts of man and Elf. He frowned, with a cautious mien. He held up his hands.

"I thought that you were privy. It seems I was mistaken."

"Yes, you were! Where have they gone!?"

"That I cannot say. I gave the King my word to keep his plans secret."

Gimli stepped towards him, menacingly.

"Steward, where are they?"

Faramir grimaced. His loyalty to the King was resolute, yet he would much sooner face the anger of his Lord, than the heavy axe of a Dwarf. Gimli's gruff, demanding tone, and formidable stare were enough proof that, should he withhold the information, he could swiftly find himself on the receiving end of a spiteful tongue and a heavy fist. While he did not fear these things - nay, that was a half-truth - he sensed an urgency to the Dwarf's hostility that persuaded him to break his promise to his sovereign. He had already let slip their purpose; it could not do any more harm to reveal their place. Gimli knew the surrounding lands, so knowing that they were on a hunt, it would not take him long to guess their course. Besides, Gimli was a friend.

"They headed along the feet of the White Mountains, into a thin strand of forests which much farther down become the Druadan, whither to no man can enter," disclosed the man. Gimli continued to glare, so Faramir - not knowing what else he should do -continued to talk, if only to cover the crackle of angry electricity that emanated from the Dwarf's shrewd eyes. He did not understand the reason for Gimli's fiery mood, only that for his own sake he should try to assuage it.

"I do hear that Elf and Dwarf are welcome there, for it is said that a pair was seen recently beneath the boughs, and that they were curiously received by those secret folk who live thereat," Faramir mentioned nervously, but also with an air of interest. "Of this latter matter, I am very much intrigued. I would, by your leave, hear of your ventures into that secluded realm. How came you there, and why?"

There was a softer expression that fell across the bearded face, of a fond recollection, though fond only ere a stubbornness caught it up, and masked it with a huff. Faramir sighed his relief, the Dwarf's hostility having lessened.

"That was the Elf's doing," Gimli grumbled, crossing his arms. "He had heard of them, of course, from Master Meriadoc, who had traveled with King Theoden through the Stonewain Valley; their chieftain, as you may know, brought Rohan more speedily to Gondor's aid."

He would have liked to tell the man how he and his tall companion had found themselves in the Druadan, amidst the stony stares of the Druedain, and the joyful laughs of Old Ghan. That was, in fact, why he and Legolas had been late. He shook his head, remembering the present peril.

"That is a happy tale that, unhappily, must go untold till another day. So please excuse me." Gimli sprinted towards the door. Faramir followed briefly after, Gimli pausing at the corridor. "I have an Elf I need to find."

"I do not think you will find him on foot," said Faramir. "You will need a horse. And that I can help you with."

Thus, through the Steward's aid, Gimli rode speedily out. He expressed his gratitude for the help. The steed that Faramir selected for him was swift, but mild-mannered, so that the Dwarf need not fear being thrown from its back, save by his own failings. He gripped its mane, as he remembered the Elf often did, and whispered into its ear.

"Horse, I am no rider by nature. So please, no tricks."

The horse snorted, and Gimli held on tighter. But, even as tempting as it was for his steed to toss the Dwarf and spend the day grazing, it sensed that there was a deep concern in his passenger's tone. So he ran smoothly, and whinnied in good humor should the Dwarf clutch to him when he leapt stones and other obstacles.

They made the journey in good time, the Dwarf spotting the fringe of forest not long after departure. As they came nigh, he began to recognize the looming trees and jagged rocks. He had explored these parts not long ago. With a cold pallor, he remembered what they had found. A hot springs. Gimli scowled, and spurred on his mount.

He burst through the forest, and found himself in a clearing, just as Legolas emerged from the foliage. The two picketed mounts neighed, spooked. Gimli half leapt, half fell from his horse's back, running to his friend's side.

"Legolas!"

The Elf looked up, and Gimli was frightened that he could possibly have taken the other by surprise. Yet Legolas did not jump; it was a passive surprise, cool and forlorn. He was pale, his feet bare. Gimli noticed, with a nervous skip of his heart, that the Elf's hair and clothes were wet. It was as he had feared. They had gone to the hot springs.

"Legolas, where is Aragorn?" asked Gimli, warily. A shadow passed across Legolas' features. It was a moment ere he responded.

"Getting dressed, I would imagine," said Legolas, not meeting his friend's anxious eyes.

"Did he-?!"

"No, I would be dead," snapped the Elf. "Do not accuse him."

Gimli was silent. He noticed something.

"What is that on your neck?"

Legolas' hand shot to his neck, quickly covering the small bruising blemish. A flush spread across his face.

"Nothing."

Gimli narrowed his eyes. Something had happened. Something had most definitely happened. He stepped towards his friend. But Legolas stepped back. Was that fear he saw flash in the other's eyes? Gimli looked down, sadly. Was Legolas afraid of him? The way the Elf flinched at his touch made his heart break. Nonetheless, he stepped again towards the Elf, taking a slender hand, and pulling him down to kneel. Down to his eye level. He looked him straight in the face. For a second, Legolas held his gaze, but he quickly glanced away.

Gimli, in his concern, missed the bruised ringlet around the thin wrist. It disappeared swiftly beneath a cuff, Legolas hiding it away.

There was a slight rustling of leaves. From the footpath came Aragorn, shoulders slumped. He looked up, surprised to find Legolas there, and more surprised to find the Dwarf. He sighed, steps melancholy and dragged.

Wordlessly, the three mounted and departed.

Their return to the citadel was silent and cheerless. Of course, Legolas could not have abandoned the King. It was his duty to protect him. But he did not speak to either of his companions on their homeward trek. He stared into the blushing horizon, a stoic sentinel of the setting sun.

They met Faramir, at dusk at the gates, who had watched their return from high above. He said nothing, but he sensed the tenseness between them, and wondered what could have happened to cause it. Legolas disappeared, leaving the two men and the Dwarf. Then Aragorn disappeared. And Gimli and Faramir were left alone, the Dwarf tight-lipped, and the Steward perplexed.

That eve, the Elf did not show up for dinner. Aragorn did, depressed and reluctant. It was only out of necessity; it would not be acceptable for him to be absent. His gloom was palpable, and it resided in the sunken circles beneath his eyes and in the weight carried by his slouched shoulders. All the while, the empty chair next to Gimli was to him more prominent than the ache in his jaw, or the throb of his fist where he had punched the stone. Gimli, meanwhile, said nothing to the King, and sat instead at the Queen's side.

The dinner went slowly, at a crawling pace. Afterwards, Aragorn went quickly to his own chambers. He could not stand to be under the pressing gazes of so many others. He needed solitude. He needed privacy.

Falling down onto his bed, the cool linen against his cheek, he closed his eyes. He did not know what to do. His mind was filled with images of not only what could have been, but also of what had been. That closeness in the spring had been so comforting, so delightful. There could not have been any embrace more perfectly matched. And the sensation that lingered with him most profoundly was the first kiss, before his body had wrested control, before he had ruined everything. There had been some peculiar feeling, some superb warmness, some breathtaking flutter of his heart. Something even stronger, and more arresting, than what he had felt for Arwen so many years ago. Aragorn opened his eyes, a hand covering his mouth.

At that instant, he knew what it was. He knew his affliction. This feeling, more powerful, more concentrated, than any other. Lust alone could not have brought him to his knees. Lust alone could not have shattered his resolve. It had an abettor.

"I love him," uttered Aragorn, shocked and yet at the very utterance light as a cloud. Yes, that was what it was! He could have cried, he could have shouted from the balconies. "I love him!" grinned the King goofily. It was marvelous. It was. . . "I love him. . ." next moaned the King, sick with grief, the terrible weight of his earlier actions, and their consequence, crushing him. He rolled miserably onto his side, facing the wall, and burying his face in the coverlet. There could be no hope to have him. That chance, as slim as it could ever have been, had been lost in the hot springs. Legolas would not come near him. He had lost the other's trust. And what was love without trust?

Just then the door clicked closed. Skirts shifted across the floor.

"Wherefore so sadly speak such joyous news," asked a kind, womanly voice. But it was no woman who took a seat next to her husband on the bed. It was Arwen. She placed a gentle hand on his back. He would not look at her. She had heard his outcry. Concerned at dinner, she had followed him to his bedchambers, and had lingered in the doorway.

"Will you tell me who it is that has stolen the King's heart?" she asked softly.

Aragorn could only groan, and bury his face deeper within the blankets. Still, even as he was ashamed, her presence was comforting, and he chanced a peek out from behind the protection and concealment of his pillow. She immediately caught his eye, a strange, subtle grin on her face. It was almost mischievous. Almost. His one revealed eye widened.

"He has bright hair, does he not?" Aragorn peeked out more from his hiding place. "And an archer's arm?" The coverlet slipped off his head. She raised a fine brow. "Named for one green leaf of his father's leafy realm. . ." Aragorn bolted upright.

"How did you know - !" He sputtered, throwing away his downy camouflage. "How did you know it was Legolas?"

Arwen laughed, clear and happy. She straightened his mussed hair, then placed a smooth palm on either of his stubbly cheeks.

"I did not," she smiled. "But now I do, as you have confirmed it." Aragorn's mouth hung agape.

"Then you were guessing?"

"Of course," said Arwen, with a gleam in her dark eyes. She laughed again at Aragorn's stunned look. "Though my guesses were honed by Dwarven counsel." The King blinked, then moaned and made to duck beneath his covers anew. She tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. "It is nothing to be ashamed of, dear Estel."

"Aye, it is," came the muffled reply, mouth once more buried beneath his pillow. It was not love that he was ashamed of. "Clearly, you do not know what I have done."

Arwen frowned, leaning over him and taking the pillow from him. Aragorn sighed, looking up at her. She had sympathy in her eyes, and understanding. But how could she possibly understand?

"Something happened between you and him on your excursion today?" she asked calmly. How could she have known of their absence? They had told no one.

"Did Gimli tell you that, also?" sighed the King, forlorn. "Faramir?"

"No, my dear. That I guessed of my own. I have never known you to quit your duties, even in illness. I knew it must have been a much more potent ailment to distract you. So I came to find you, and you had left a map on your bedside table," she replied, with a smile, gesturing to a curled parchment. "But neither have I known sweet Legolas not to be at Gimli's side, and he was not at dinner. I had thought you to be glum with lovesickness, but now I fear something more. Will you tell me what has happened?"

Aragorn closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He would have to tell her. Though Aragorn was distraught, he was no fool. If he kept this secret - he knew Legolas would not tell, unless perhaps he told Gimli, who he would swear to secrecy - it would eat away at him. And of all people to tell, he could count on her to be most forgiving, and most compassionate. She would listen quietly, and give him an honest response.

He exhaled, and, steeling himself, confessed his emotions. He started with the day of Legolas' arrival, and the ticklings of lust he had felt on that first day. He told her of their dance, and how the sound of Legolas' voice shot through him like a bolt of lightning, setting his senses aflame. How they had laughed together in the empty hall, how the slender frame haunted his every thought. And then, voice dripping with regret, how they had gone together to the hot springs and the dark deeds his body had sought to commit.

"That is why he would not come to dinner," said Aragorn.

Arwen thought silently, her lips pursed. Aragorn watched her, anxious for what she would say. She reminded him, at that moment, of the night sky that had looked down on him with such ill-favor. Yet she did not look at him in such a way. Her black hair was an inky backdrop for the sparkling stars of her eyes. She was serious, but she was not harsh. Even, he thought, he saw a glimmer of hope.

"Why are you not angry with me?" he asked of her, reverently. She seemed surprised.

"Estel, all men can be led astray," she rubbed his back again. "While you do owe Legolas an apology - a very great one - he will forgive you. You were led down the wrong path, not knowing that there was another for you to follow. Now you know it, and now you can make things right."

"But how can I make things right? He does not love me, and now I am sure he despises me." Aragorn sat up, holding his head in his hands, between his knees.

"Legolas would never despise you."

"If he does not despise me - verily, I would despise me! - then at the very least he will never be comfortable with me again. I have lost him, to a foolish human urge, that made a mockery of love ere I even knew its face."

Arwen wrapped an arm around his shoulder, tenderly drawing him closer until his head rested on her breast. He leaned in, finding solace in her touch.

"Your actions are what you make of them. Let this destroy the friendship you hold dear, and indeed, it will become dark. But that does not have to be." She stroked his hair. "Give him space, and let him sort out his own emotions. Then you must apologize. There may be more to this than meets the eye."

Aragorn sighed again, knowing the wisdom in her words. That is what he would have to do. As tormenting as he knew it would be to give his friend space, that was what Legolas would need. When the time was right, he would beg his forgiveness, and disclose his feelings. He would not let his lust outshine his love, as ardently as it burned within him. He knew Legolas did not love him, but he drifted into sleep, knowing that if he could not have love, at least he might have friendship.

Meanwhile, as the King was consoled by his Queen, Gimli found his dear friend, not stretched out beneath the stars as he was wont to be, but seated pensively on a white and lonely bench. His chin was cupped in a palm, and he stared upwards, but blankly. He was in an empty courtyard, the forms of trees and fountains black distortions around him; Gimli could barely see him, his own form shadowy and still like the sculptures. It was only for the glint of the moonlight in his eyes that the Dwarf spotted him.

"Legolas?" said Gimli, approaching cautiously. "May I sit with you?"

Legolas patted the stone next to him, then became again unmoving. Gimli took a seat, but neither spoke. There was a cricket chirping tunefully and the happy bubble of the fountain, at odds with the gloom pervading the courtyard. To them, it might have been the sun in the sky and not the stars.

Despite its darkness, it was peaceful. Gimli could understand why the Elf was drawn to this place. It was not lost on him that this had also been the scene of their onetime jollity, of their music-making. Perhaps the cricket and the fountain were singing that same refrain.

"Gimli," said Legolas, at last, "I do not know what to do."

The Dwarf looked at his companion in surprise. Legolas had never said such a thing to him before. He had never so plainly and honestly admitted his own uncertainty. Gimli watched him, as he stared down at his wrist, finger trailing around the bluish bracelet. Only the Dwarf could not see the bruise with the dimness, only the indecision.

"You are not hurt, are you?" Asked Gimli, not knowing how to respond.

"No, no. . . " Legolas was thoughtful for a moment. "Only my heart hurts," he said, as he rubbed his chest absently. "And I do not know why."

Gimli furrowed his brow, fearful that Legolas had suffered some heartbreak in the woods with Aragorn, which could spell his demise.

"How do you mean?"

"I do not know," he clutched the fabric of his shirt. "I have never felt this way before."

"Describe it to me."

Legolas pursed his lips, thinking. He was feeling and listening to his pulse. He frowned, having found it.

"It is. . . like a flutter. And an ache," he said, letting his hand fall from his chest. "Like a leaf tossed in a warm wind. That is the best I can describe it."

Gimli turned to him, serious and yet with a glimmer in his eyes. He knew those symptoms. And this indecision, and melancholy, this skittishness, and pensiveness. Legolas looked at him, nervous.

"What is it, Gimli?" Legolas asked, anxious for the Dwarf's diagnosis, eyes widening. The stern line of Gimli's mouth broadened into a grin, his eyes beholding his friend with wonder.

"Legolas, that is love," he said, placing a hand on either shoulder, and staring at him proudly. The Elf's orbs went wide with disbelief, but it was not so much shock at the diagnosis, as that the Dwarf had confirmed his own fearful suspicions. "Legolas, I think you are in love!" Gimli patted him on the back. A modest flush spread across his fair face, his fingertips unconsciously moving to touch his lips. Gimli watched him closely, beaming knowingly.

"He kissed you, didn't he! I see that blush, - oh, you are turning bright red! - do not think the night can hide it," Gimli leapt to his feet. "You rascal, he kissed you and you fell in love!" The Dwarf threw back his head and laughed into the cool, nocturnal air. He could have danced. So was that what had happened in the springs? Was that the cause of the Elf's reticence and indecision?

"This is wonderful, Legolas," said the happy Dwarf, taking up his friend's hands. "Why are you not smiling? I was so worried that something horrible had happened today, but if he only kis- "

The white cuff of Legolas' sleeve slid down, collecting at his elbow, and revealing the dark, purple finger marks. The cheerfulness drained out of him, his heart dropping to the stone floor and shattering to pieces.

"Legolas, what is this?" he asked gravely, not letting the Elf pull his hand away. He brushed his own thick fingers over it, gently, as he would touch a delicate, precious gem. Legolas flinched. "It is not broken, thank goodness! Only nastily sprained," he breathed, after testing it a few times more, and moving it gingerly. "How did this happen! Why did you not tell me!"

Legolas would say nothing; he had clammed up. Gimli knew that he would not be able to make him speak if he did not want to. That was impossible; Legolas was far too stubborn. When Legolas did not want to speak, he might as well have worn a lock on his lips. Then Gimli noticed something more ominous. It was the imprint of the King's ring, in purple and blue, on Legolas' wrist. His mouth gaped, incredulous.

"Aragorn did this to you?" he said, an ire brewing in his chest. Legolas did not deny it, only looked up at his friend sadly and seriously. Gimli held his head in his hands, realizing the truth of what must have passed between Elf and man in the heat of the springs, realizing that it had not just been a kiss. "It is as I feared!" cried the Dwarf, "I knew that something had happened, I knew it from the second that I saw you emerge from the trees. Only I let myself believe that it could not be. Oh Legolas, I warned you not to be alone with him. I should not have let you out of my sights. What has he done?"

Legolas was flustered, a red tint still ghosting his cheeks. Gimli was too perceptive. He had learned everything without being told anything. Gimli knew him too well for any secrets.

So, knowing that it would be easier to tell him himself, than to let him continue guessing, or to further distress him by letting him fathom things more horrible - already the Dwarf was pacing the cobbled paths - he started from the beginning. He told him how he had observed Aragorn, and had seen no sign of the lust Gimli had warned him against. He told him of his plan to help his Lord, to bring him to the springs that they might relax him. Then he told him of what had happened, how Aragorn had indeed kissed him and how he had not pulled away. How he had panicked, and tried to escape, how the man had not let him, and how he had struck Aragorn. At first, Gimli had sought to seek out the man, in his anger. But Legolas also told him how there had been some strange feeling in him, faint but terrifying. It had taken control of him. Only at the last instant, when the cold breeze had cleared his head, had he fled.

"Gimli, I think. . . I think that I felt. . . lust," he whispered, shocked at his own revelation. His eyes were round as the full moon, but they were not tranquil; they were horrified. He hid his face in his hands, ashamed. It was a look of absolute anguish. "Oh, I do not know what to do."

Gimli wrapped an arm around his shoulders, taking the other's chin in his hand and making him look up. Although what Aragorn had done was unacceptable, it was obvious now that Legolas had feelings for him. There could be only one solution. He stared into his eyes, the distress on his friend's fair face breaking his heart. "Legolas, what do you mean you do not know what to do?"

"What do _you_ mean, Gimli?" groaned the Elf, "what _can_ I do? Aragorn is married! I cannot believe that I let him kiss me! I cannot believe that he did. And now you say that I love him! That is too cruel."

Gimli began to smile, sympathetic and hopeful and careful. As furious as he was with the man for forcing himself on the Elf - forsooth, the King would not dare lay a hurtful finger on the Elf ever again, once Gimli was done with him - he could not have dreamed of any better resolution than, though through unfortunate circumstances, the Elf realizing his love. He held Legolas' head, pressing their foreheads together.

"My silly friend, you do not know?"

"Know what, Gimli?" sighed Legolas, exasperated and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Legolas! Aragorn and Arwen are no longer in love!"

"That is not funny, Gimli. I am in no mood."

"No, it is the truth! I swear it. Arwen has told me. I told her my suspicions, and she confirmed them! She has been trying for a year to convince the King to take a lover, but he will not do it." Gimli mussed his friend's hair. "Ask her yourself! I am sure she will throw you into Aragorn's bed."

"Gimli!" stammered Legolas, mortified.

"It is true! My dear friend, Aragorn is all yours."

Legolas' face was bright with color. He rubbed his temples, overwhelmed by all that Gimli was saying, and overwhelmed by the flood of emotions that swept through him. Truly, he did not know what to do. At the very thought of Aragorn, when once he could imagine only camaraderie, now his heart would leap. He realized, with a pang of guilt, that this persistent longing was what Aragorn had struggled with all along.

It frightened him, also. More than the rumble of the Balrog, that for the first time caused him to drop his arrow. More than a legion of orcs, that for the first time inspired him to wear armor. He had never experienced anything like it before. The tiny flicker of passion he had felt at the hot springs terrified him, to the core. He did not understand why.

Besides that, it concerned him that he found another male attractive. Of course, he had heard of two males finding comfort in each other's arms. That was not so uncommon. Nor was a deep brotherly affection. But this? He had never heard of two males in love. He did not know what people would think. Clearly, Arwen and Gimli saw nothing wrong about it. Neither, in truth, did Legolas. However, he did not think that the city of Gondor would share that point of view. They were a stern and rigid people. And how could he condone violating that ancient pact, to tempt Aragorn to love another even after he had consummated his love with Arwen? How could he find happiness that the King and Queen had grown apart?

And there was one thing still more painful, and more horrifying. It was something that always lurked at the edge of his awareness, but that always he pushed back. It was the knowledge that Aragorn was mortal. If Legolas surrendered to what he felt, he would one day have to face that fact. He would one day lose everything. That is why he had sworn that he would not fall in love! To avoid heartache. Already he knew the ache of a broken heart. Everyday, he felt the call of the sea, the pull that denied him the world he loved, the forests and stones and rivers of his home. How he longed for the contentedness of the past. He knew this would be the same pain he would feel if he admitted his feelings for Aragorn, only to watch him grow old and fade.

And what would he do if Aragorn did not love him? What if there was only lust? He would not be used. Neither would he be forced! Even as he cared for Aragorn, love for Elves was a much more serious notion than for men. An Elf would not lie with another merely for physical pleasure, as men would. Once an Elf was bound to a lover, they could not be unbound. They would be connected for eternity.

He drew his knees close, wrapping his arms around his shins. He was torn, and confused. He fingered the embroidery of his slipper. He had come to a decision. The risk was too great. He would not act on his feelings, no matter how ardently his heart pounded. Aragorn would have to find another. It would be better that way, for both.

"Come, my friend. Tomorrow is another day, but now it is late, and although you do not require sleep, I do," said Gimli, pulling Legolas to his feet. Still, he could sense the other's deeply rooted distress. The only remedy for this night could be sleep. The Elf had gone through too much that day. "I think a night of mortal rest might do you well, my poor friend. It will ease your mind. Even I will tuck you in."

Legolas followed him to their room, and, as Gimli had suggested, lay down on his bed. He left the window open that the cool breeze could brush over him, and he let himself slip into a tentative slumber.

While he dreamt, he imagined many times leaving Minas Tirith. If he left, it would spare both himself and the King all their troubles. Aragorn could find himself a beautiful maid, and Legolas perhaps could go to Ithilien, where replenishing the war-torn land would occupy his time. But he would not do that. That was cowardly, and Legolas was no coward. While he was frightened, he would not run.


	6. Chapter 6

Nonetheless, Legolas spent the following days torn. He noticed that Aragorn kept his distance, something that he both appreciated and loathed. It made him angry that Aragorn had done what he had. He would not tolerate being taken advantage of, neither would he tolerate disrespect. Even so, he could not deny that he had not been altogether repulsed. Anything but, in fact. Now the scant touches that they shared - a hand brushing the other, a tap on the shoulder - sent a tremor through his body. They made his heart race, and beat so loudly he was certain that the sound of it reverberated through the hallways. So he would quickly pull away.

Aragorn noticed this, also. Legolas would hardly look him in the eye, when normally the Elf's gaze was strong and sharp, no matter who he beheld. It hurt him to keep away, and it hurt him when their fingers would meet, or their leg bump beneath a table, and Legolas would hurriedly recoil. He knew, however, that he owed it to Legolas to allow him space. He needed to show his friend the depth of his respect. Gimli, also, had berated him for a full hour, in all his Dwarven ferocity, for his earlier disrespect of the Elf in the hot springs. That, if his own sense of duty and affection had not been enough, would have inspired reverence even from an orc. So he continued to keep away from his fair friend.

Yet neither made any progress. The King could not steel himself to apologize, even as he desperately wanted to, and Legolas could not confess his true feelings.

For that reason, unbeknownst to them, their confidants - those who had watched them closely from the very beginnings - had hatched a plan. They could not stand to have their two good friends needlessly distressed. The pair had already managed to complicate what should have been simple, to admit their emotions to the other. While both agreed that Aragorn had been wrong in his methodology, they also agreed that the signs of love were in both unmistakable. And so Gimli and Arwen, after discussing the situation, had decided that they would have to intervene. The King and the Elf might otherwise dance around each other their entire lives, only to miss the beauty of what they felt. They did not consider themselves to be meddling. Rather, they believed themselves merely to be steering their friends in the most sensible direction.

After having given Legolas ample time to recover himself, and giving both ample time to act for themselves, they set their plans in motion.

At dinner, they would innocently rearrange the seats so that the Elf was at Aragorn's side. In conversation, always they would mention the other's name. Even Gimli had organized the street musicians to sing love songs as Legolas passed them in the city. More than once the pensive archer had been accosted by passionate melodies and soulful lyres as he sought peace of mind down cobblestone pathways. Arwen made a secret request that the court entertainers perform only romances. Everywhere they went, Gimli would run sneakily ahead to find a youthful couple, persuading them to stroll past at the moment Legolas turned the corner. Arwen filled Aragorn's bedchambers with wild roses and daffodils. Unfortunately, none of this meddling - rather, steerage- seemed to work. And, as Gimli had been the less subtle, he feared that Legolas was catching on.

Yet they had one last trick up their sleeves. Arwen, in her infinite wisdom had realized it. There was a ball, a celebration of the first day of summer, in two days. If, at that ball, they could arrange that the King danced with the one who had captured his heart, they were certain that their love could not remain unrequited. After all, it had all started with a dance, how fitting that it should be resolved that way.

While Aragorn was required to attend, Legolas was not, and so it took significant trickery on Gimli's part to achieve the Elf's promise to attend. In order to do this, Arwen had ingeniously decided to make it also the unofficial celebration of Eldarion's half-birthday, despite it being many months early. Thereby, mostly Gimli guilted his friend into attendance, as Legolas cared deeply for the little lord, and could not upset him.

Arwen, also, neglected to inform the King that Legolas would be coming. It would be a surprise. More so a surprise if Gimli could convince Legolas to wear the outfit Arwen had selected, and if Aragorn would let her dress him. They would both look so stunning, there would be no way they could not spot each other.

The day of, and only hours before the ball, shouts and Dwarven curses could be heard through the thick doors of his shared quarters. More than a few courtly lords and ladies paused in curiosity at the strings of obscenities issuing mysteriously from hindmost the bolted door.

"Legolas, you must go!" demanded Gimli, inside. Legolas sat on the bed and refused to be swayed. He was skeptical of the Dwarf's intentions. And for good reason, given the recent barrage of meddling that he had suffered; the kissing couples, the love songs. They were all too abundant for coincidence. Now, seeing the attire, he felt distinctly that this, too, was not coincidence. The short one raked his fingers through his hair, exasperated. "You promised!"

"That was before I saw what you would have me wear."

Gimli groaned. They had been arguing since the sunrise, when Gimli had brought out Arwen's gift. The Evenstar, who had an excellent eye for color and cloth, had selected truly dazzling attire. It was not flamboyantly expensive at a glance, but upon closer inspection, was rich and soft and costly. She had had it specially made, Gimli having surreptitiously acquired the measurements, mostly through borrowing Legolas' wardrobe without asking.

"What is wrong with this?" Gimli held up the pale blue tunic. There were tiny vines flowering around the collar and cuffs. "It suits you perfectly!"

"Gimli, I do not see why I should have to dress up, when you are not. My own clothes are fine. Besides," he pointed at the Dwarf accusingly, narrowing his eyes, "you have been up to something, and while I have not yet caught you in the act, sooner or later I will. You have that scheming look in your eyes - ah, do not deny it! - and whenever I see it, things do not end well for me."

"Legolas, I am not scheming. You will wear this," said Gimli, sternly, and pulling together his most formidable stance. Legolas rolled his eyes.

"Gimli, if I do not wish to wear it, there is nothing you can do to make me."

The Dwarf gritted his teeth, his face darkening in exasperation. Too much planning had gone into this for it to be spoiled over clothing.

"I take that as a challenge," Gimli grumbled, stepping towards him, the tunic in hand, as if it were a net with which to capture him. Legolas' eyes flicked to him.

"Dwarf, choose your actions wisely."

Gimli took another step towards him, intrepid. Legolas narrowed his eyes. Another step. Legolas leapt up, standing on top of his bed. Without a moment's warning, Gimli flew at him. Ere he could dodge, a thick arm caught him around the waist and they both fell from the bed with a crash.

Half an hour later, when they left the room, Legolas was wearing the outfit Arwen had selected, albeit with an added glower, his arms crossed. Gimli quietly closed the door behind them, his face a picture of smugness.

"I feel betrayed," said the Elf, sulkily tugging at his cuffs. He sported not only a bruised ego, but also two bruised elbows as battle wounds.

"Oh, do not pout, Legolas. It is not my fault that you are ticklish."

Legolas glared at him ferociously, crossing his arms tighter across his chest.

"That was underhanded, Gimli, and you know it."

This time Gimli rolled his eyes.

"There is nothing underhanded about knowing your opponent's weaknesses and using them. That is all that I did."

He took Legolas by the arm, and began down the corridor. Legolas, still in a sour state over his defeat, let himself be led. However, his mood lightened when they reached the hall and he glanced Eldarion scurry by. The child was adorably outfitted, a bracelet of flowers around his wrist. A servant chased after him.

"He is much steadier on his feet now than a week past," laughed Legolas, nudging his companion in the side.

Gimli puffed out his chest, tucking his fingers into his belt.

"Probably due to his Dwarven tutor." Legolas turned to him, incredulous.

"You taught him?"

"Well, I would not say taught. Already he knew the basics," beamed the Dwarf, amused by Legolas' disbelief. "I would say, perfected. After all, I have not been idle during our stay."

"No, you have certainly not," said the Elf, narrowing his eyes once more. He keenly remembered the copious love songs that followed him through the city streets, and all the other suspicious orchestrations that besieged him wherever he went. "Anything but idle." He glared at the Dwarf, dubious.

"I used some of your advice, also. So I suppose you are due half the credit," said Gimli, watching fondly as Eldarion evaded the poor servant once more, light and nimble on his toes. "With Dwarven solidness, and Elven swiftness, he is unstoppable."

Legolas hummed his agreement.

"Whether that is good or bad at this age, you will have to ask the servant," chuckled Legolas, watching the happy child zip past his legs. Feeling sympathy for the distrait servant, Legolas scooped the boy into his arms. "Little prince, it is time to go into the hall. Your guests are waiting for you."

Eldarion looked up at his captor, surprised to have been so suddenly swept off his feet. Legolas handed the child to the appreciative, albeit winded, servant. The boy needed to take his seat, next to his royal mother and father, so that the festivities could begin.

The peculiar pair, the tall Elf and the stout Dwarf, entered the after the servant. The walls were trimmed with rich hues, bringing out a sliver of warmth in the black and white unfeeling marble. It was rare that the stone halls saw such gaiety. It was a celebration of summer, after all. Not to mention Eldarion. While it could not compare, in vivacity, to the festivities and festoons of Elven merriment, there was clearly a touch of Rivendell.

"Hm," mused Gimli, glancing at the bright flowers on the rail. He plucked one, examining it to insure its perfection. He pulled Legolas down by the shoulder and placed it behind his ear, nodding in satisfaction.

"Gimli, I think I am decorated enough."

Legolas, Gimli could tell, felt self-conscious about his elegant dress. He continued to pull at the hems. Always, Gimli had discovered, this was the only outward sign of his nervousness. It probably also had something to do with Aragorn's sudden gaze upon him as they passed the sweeping doorframe.

Gimli smiled. So far the plan was working! The King had seen the Elf immediately. And, as Gimli perceived, it was not only Aragorn's eyes that Legolas drew. There were many young maids who blushed and giggled as he glided by. Gimli did not blame them.

The pale-blue tunic hung modestly at mid-thigh, showing off his long limbs. The leggings, which were a darker shade, had been tailored, like the tunic, to precise specifications, and were thus a close fit. The collar made a reserved V, revealing the points of his collar bones, and only a hint of his chest. Its design was simple, but this only served to heighten Legolas' handsomeness. Arwen was extremely clever, knowing the power and tastefulness of minimalism.

At the last minute, Gimli had insisted that he wear his hair down, and unadorned save for the sunny blossom. This, Gimli concluded, had been an excellent choice. The flower behind his ear brought out the brightness of his eyes, and their untamed nature. For practicality, the Elf's hair was always pulled back. To have it free, and with the gentle wave of its erstwhile restraints, gave him a decidedly alluring quality. Especially when he might sweep an errant strand behind his ear. Aragorn did not stand a chance.

Neither, for that matter, did Legolas. He, too, had spotted Aragorn instantly. Arwen had similarly outdone herself with the King, who wore a smart, short-sleeved tunic, with a grey, long-sleeved undershirt. As he was the King, and as Minas Tirith was a solemn city, she could not dress him as colorfully as she had her other subject. Nonetheless, the tunic was a weave of silver and crimson threads, hemmed in violet. His beard and hair which had, with his mounting stress, grown unkempt, were now groomed. Though Aragorn always looked the part of King, with Arwen's artfulness, he was the epitome of majesty and magnificence.

Upon Aragorn's nod to the musicians, they began to play, and the crowd, with a round of applause, began to dance. While the King, the Queen and their son sat on their thrones, the gathered lords and ladies swirled and stepped on the floor below. A few courageous maidens asked Legolas to dance, but always he politely declined. Some, in spite of this, were more bold, and more persistent, and grasped his hands, and so he would spend a few songs with them, chatting kindly, dancing calmly, ere he excused himself. Gimli, too, received his fair share of offers, and, being a gentlemen, he could not help but accept.

However, when Eldarion had been put to bed by the nursemaid, and it was time for the King and Queen to join the dance, Gimli made certain to courteously cut in between Legolas and his partner.

"What are you doing?" asked Legolas, curious. Of course, he did not mind dancing with Gimli, although they received stares. The maiden from whom he had been stolen put her hands on her hips, and huffed away. But only after sending Gimli a mighty glower.

"Can I help if I am jealous?" joked the Dwarf. As Legolas laughed, he did not catch Gimli exchange glances with Arwen, who was subtly leading Aragorn their way. Gimli cringed as a pair moved suddenly out of the way, knowing that Legolas would spot them, and try to flee. The Dwarf's mind worked quickly. "Your dance partner, I noticed, was a touch too bold, anyways. If you get my drift." He waggled a brow, and pinched the Elf.

"Gimli!"

The Dwarf shrugged. To himself, he smirked. His diversion had worked. Neither did he want Legolas to notice that, as Arwen was leading Aragorn closer to them, he too was steering Legolas in that direction. In a moment, Arwen was at Gimli's back.

"My Lady," asked Gimli, knowing she was there, "could I trouble you for a dance?"

"Gimli, what-" started Legolas.

"Why, of course, Master Dwarf," replied Arwen, pulling her husband suddenly towards her.

"Arwen, what -" started Aragorn.

At the same instant, Gimli followed the Queen's example. Then, in sync with Arwen, he stepped out of the way. Both Aragorn and Legolas stumbled towards each other, and Arwen and Gimli swirled away, the exchange complete.

It was thus that the King unexpectedly found the Elf in his arms, and not his wife. He raised his brows in surprise, but could do nothing but continue to dance, the crowd sweeping them up.

"Oh, that crafty Dwarf," muttered Legolas, not realizing who it was that had caught him. "I am sorry, sir. He stole your partner -" Legolas looked up, annoyed and apologetic. His eyes widened - he might have stumbled anew had not strong hands held him - recognizing the face in front of him.

"That is alright, Legolas," said Aragorn. Legolas blanched, his heart skipping a beat. He looked around for an escape, but there were none. The crowd had closed in around them. Legolas gulped. When he found Gimli, he would tear off his beard. A shiver ran down his spine, and he could not meet the King's eyes.

"You look stunning tonight," said Aragorn, not knowing what else to say. He could feel the tension grow in his friend's muscles. That had not been the right thing to say. Legolas did not reply, only he stared nervously into the sea of gentry around him. "You know I did not plan this," he tried again.

"Oh, I know who planned it," grumbled Legolas, glaring at Gimli and the Queen as they danced together, far on the opposite end of the hall. Aragorn could not help but acknowledge the skillfulness with which it was the two had arranged this. Forsooth, it had been spectacular. Neither could he help but add his own glare to Legolas', for the same reason. He had wondered why Arwen had been so choosey about what he wore! He could only guess that Legolas' resplendent attire had been her doing, as well.

Feeling the race of the other's heart, matched with that of his own, Aragorn took a deep breath. All he could do was wait until the end of the song. If he could manage until then. The touch of Legolas' form against his own could have driven him to insanity, first. He shook his head.

He realized then the odd way that Legolas had tilted his wrist. He remembered, in horror, the way he had grabbed it at the spring. He cupped it more gently, fingers carefully examining it. Legolas' eyes flitted to his ministrations.

"You should let me wrap this. It will not heal, otherwise," he said, sadly, and unable to broach the deeper matter.

"It will be fine," said Legolas, shortly.

Aragorn took another deep breath.

"Legolas," he said, voice full of remorse, "I am so sorry. I never meant. . ."

Legolas sighed, letting himself be spun, following the example of the other dancing couples. He did not respond for a long time.

"I know," he said at last.

"You are not angry with me?"

"I was," said Legolas, quietly, and choosing his words with care. "But it helped me to realize. . . other things." Aragorn's eyes widened.

"Other things?" What could he mean? He said it so darkly. By the Valar, he could not mean he had realized hatred? His hatred would be like a dagger to his soul. But Legolas changed the subject.

"How is your jaw? I did not mean to strike you so hard."

"It is fine, Legolas," said the King, anxious and apprehensive. What did his jaw matter! He would gladly tear it from his face, and never speak again, if only Legolas would tell him what it was he meant. To tempt him as he had was heartless. "Please, Legolas, what do you mean, 'other things' ?"

Legolas looked at the floor, at their shifting, stepping feet. A blush crept across his face. A blush!? Aragorn stared in disbelief. What could inspire so sorrowful, so timid, so exquisite an expression?

"Aragorn, I . . . " Legolas paused, biting his lip. The insecurity in his features made the King crumble to pieces as nothing else could. Finally, Legolas looked up at him, in the eyes, for the first time since his stormy glare at the ledge of the springs. And Aragorn saw in them an emotion he did not anticipate. It was bold, and yet unsure. Powerful, and yet frightened. It was all of this, and more. It was as if the whole hall disappeared, looking into them - to see such an emotion reflected - so that he scarcely caught the words. "Aragorn, I think I love you."

Aragorn stumbled. At first, he thought he had misheard. That could not be. It had to be some cruel trick of his mind. But no! He could see it, he could see it still in the Elf's wide eyes.

"You. . . you love me?" faltered Aragorn, his own eyes widening at the realization. His heart seemed to leap out of his chest. He stopped dancing, uncaring of the swirling couples around them whose way he blocked. His lips spread into a grin. He could have shouted his happiness to the heavens. Instead, he lifted Legolas into the air, as if he weighed nothing at all, spinning him around. Almost, tears came to his eyes.

Then an advisor pulled at his arm.

"My Lord, it is time for you to announce the end of the ball."

Aragorn put Legolas down on his feet, but did not release him.

"This cannot wait!?" he groaned, turning angrily to the advisor. How inopportune! How he hated his advisors.

"No, my Lord. It will be midnight in just a moment. Always the King announces the first day of summer. It is tradition."

"Oh, let a dragon devour you!" Growled the King to his harrying advisor. Aragorn could have roared, but he controlled himself with only a curse. He was in the presence of his people, he could not bite off his advisor's head, as much as he wanted to. He turned back to the Elf.

"Legolas, wait for me. Please. This will take only a moment." He clutched his friend's shoulder, staring deeply into his eyes. There could be no avoiding it. He had to announce the midnight hour.

He gave Legolas' shoulder one last squeeze, and then marched furiously up the stairs, and to his throne. Arwen was already there, with a twinkle of humor, and also sympathy, at having observed the scene.

It was a testament to his strength of will that he did not throw the cup of wine he was handed to the ground. Instead, he lifted it into the air, face a perfect facade of solemnity, and beckoned in the first day of summer.

"A toast to a prosperous year!" He shouted, scanning the faces below for Legolas. He was there, still, standing uneasily in the sea of faces, only his own stood out as more handsome than any other. The crowd cheered. He threw back the wine, and cast a pleading look at his Queen. She nodded, smiling knowingly. She stepped forward.

"Your King has drunk one cup too many!" She announced, with a glimmer in her eye. The crowd roared with laughter. Aragorn smiled also. "Alas, his Queen must make his speech."

She patted him on the back. "Go," she whispered. Aragorn grinned, grateful to his wife. At the power and presence of the Evenstar, it went unnoticed that the King had slipped away. It was not until the following morning that the advisors realized that they had been duped.

As speedily as he had tried to take care of the ceremony, it had still taken him time to stealthily escape. Now Aragorn could not find Legolas. He had had to sneak out the door behind his thrown, and run back around to a side door of the hall, not wanting to be seen by the crowd. Probably, Legolas had thought he had forgotten him. Or worse! He might have thought the King's irritation to be with him. With a pang of horror and guilt, Aragorn realized he had not told the Elf that he returned his sentiments. He had not told him that he loved him back. He searched more desperately, spurred by this clamorous dread.

Suddenly, he spotted him, walking out the main door of the hall. Uncaring if he was seen, Aragorn ran after him, pushing through the throngs of lords and ladies so quickly that they did not have time to recognize him. He shoved open the great doors, in a huff.

"Legolas!" shouted Aragorn, eyes unadjusted to the sudden dimness outside the bright hall. He could not see him. Then, sitting alone on the balustrade, he came into view, illuminated by the full moon, as if a halo. He spared not another moment. Aragorn stepped towards him.

"May I kiss you?" he asked, though it was not a question. Legolas turned to him, surprised.

He did not respond, only his mouth opened, no words spilling forth. Clearly, however, the Elf had heard him. By the silver glow of the stars, Aragorn could see a blush.

Aragorn smiled. He lifted Legolas's chin. "I will take that as a yes."

Aragorn kissed him then, his arm coiling around the slender waist, and another winding into his hair. A shiver shot through him. Unlike their first kiss, this one was chaste, and delicate and sweet. He could feel the other tense suddenly, and in another instant, melt into his arms.

"Legolas," he gasped, as he broke the kiss, their foreheads pressed together, and noses brushing. "I love you."

Legolas' eyes widened, nervous for only a moment. His face was red, his fingers touching his lips. He grinned, then, dazedly gazing up with love and affection. Next he did something that Aragorn did not expect. Legolas kissed him back, pulling him close by two fistfuls of his shirt collar.

Aragorn could have cried. Instead, he deepened their kiss, a hand on the small of his back drawing him into his chest. Legolas opened his mouth, yielding control. He leaned back against the rail, and Aragorn leaned into him, the moon and the stars surrounding their forms.

Legolas smiled kindly up at him, and Aragorn admiringly back down, the tired lines on the Kings brow seeming to diminish by the power of the silent gaze they shared.

"Ahem," said a gruff voice. Gimli stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "Lovebirds, you might want to find a nest."

Two heads spun to the Dwarf.

"Gimli, how long were you there!" yelped Legolas, turning a brighter red.

Aragorn chuckled. However, he distinctly remembered the Dwarven reprimands he had so recently received, and so his chuckle was also chary. He had been warned, quite clearly, that he was not allowed even to touch the Elf. And that same Dwarf had caught him now in a fervent kiss. Yet he could not be compelled by any force, no matter how great, to loosen his hold on the other. What Aragorn could not have realized, as he clutched Legolas unabashedly to his chest, was that this too had been a part of Gimli and Arwen's strategy, for it had only made the man want more what he was denied.

"Long enough," smiled the Dwarf. His eyes were glowing with happiness. Aragorn let loose a breath he could not remember holding; Gimli was not angry. "But I am telling you, unless you wish to be caught by all the lords and ladies, and not just by myself, you might want to take this elsewhere. They will be leaving, through these doors, in a matter of minutes."

"Let them see!" exclaimed the King, no longer ashamed. He would freely shout his love from the parapets. Legolas tugged at his hand, flustered.

"One step at a time, Aragorn," said Gimli, "you have got your Elf. I do not think it would do to kill him of embarrassment."

Legolas made to move away, his keen ears hearing the approach of a multitude of feet. Aragorn swept him up.

"Very well! To the bedroom!" announced the smitten King.

"I do not think that is helping," laughed the Dwarf, delighting in the way that Legolas protested being held, but not the proposition. With a wink, he slipped back inside the hall to stall the masses. As much as he enjoyed riling his dear friend, he would spare him this night, of all nights.

The two disappeared down the dark of the hall, to the royal chambers, for intimate acts, which the moon beheld with radiant fondness.


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: This is the second to last chapter! Thank you all so much for your kind reviews, and for reading. I do have a word of warning, however. This chapter, as I am sure you have all collected, will be considerably more explicit than all the rest. SO, if you are not old enough to read such things, or if you would prefer not to, fear not! All you have to do is to skip to the final chapter when it is posted. I have tried to divide it up so that in doing so you will lose out plotwise. I hope you all enjoy!_

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Aragorn could scarcely control himself long enough to reach his chambers. He had waited so long for this, thinking that it could never happen! He set Legolas down in the doorway, and caught him in another kiss, pressing him against the walls. Timid at first - just as before - Legolas grew bolder. Aragorn shuddered to feel the slender hands on his back. He locked shut the door behind them, pushing the other towards the bed.

Legolas backed into the table, grasping Aragorn's shoulders so as not to fall. Aragorn leaned in closer, running a hand along a strong thigh. The back of Legolas's knees hit the bed, and he fell onto it, Aragorn falling onto him.

The man bit at the pale neck, and Legolas arched his back. He came, suddenly, upon a mark he had left at the hot springs. A tremor of guilt shook him. He looked up from the soft skin.

"Legolas, are you sure -?"

The Elf looked up at him, silently, and enchantingly flushed. A myriad of thoughts rippled in the pools of his eyes. Fear was there, and uncertainty, but also a cloudiness and longing, and a powerful love. Then, at last, there was surety.

"Yes," said Legolas, kissing the King's cheek. "Yes, I am."

He cupped the stubbly jaw, looking adoringly up at his friend.

"I saw fear in your eyes?" Asked Aragorn, placing his hands over the smooth ones. Legolas nodded, no longer abashed to look the man in the eyes. Aragorn had missed this confidence; it lit his body aflame.

"Yes, but it is not for the reason you think."

"Then wherefore, my love?" Aragorn began to lick at the bared neck.

"I realize its foolishness, now," Legolas arched his back again, his hands snaking around Aragorn's waist. "I was afraid to love you."

"I can relate," he replied, sympathetic.

Aragorn could easily understand, as he, too, had struggled with his emotions. He ran his hand over Legolas forehead, the honesty on the Elf's face piercing him to the core. But that same face became momentarily forlorn.

"Why this sadness?" Asked the King, brow wrinkling in concern. Legolas looked up at him thoughtfully, and evaluatingly. There was something still on his mind. He glanced away, biting his lip.

"There are silver hairs in your beard," said Legolas. He peered back up at the King, who chuckled lightly.

"Aye, I am growing old," he said, scratching his chin. Legolas looked up at him knowingly. And it was then that Aragorn understood the strange worry in the other's face. The King gazed down at this creature that had taken hold of his heart, with love and caring and he frowned, unable to find an answer.

"I do not know what to say."

Legolas twisted a finger around one of Aragorn's dark locks, and for a time he was quiet and thoughtful. He leaned up and kissed the man.

"You need not say anything. It is better to love me now, while you can," he said with a wistful smile, and a new twinkle in his eye. "Let us fill these years with more joy than I could experience in all the millennia I might live, thus the warm afterglow might remain with me for eternity."

Aragorn beamed. He was reminded thus of the wisdom of his friend, and the depth of the sacrifice it was for him to offer up his heart. Instead of wasting Aragorn's precious human years contemplating what this love could be, he would rather experience it. Truly, it would be more tragic to lose that time pondering the consequences, only to realize its passing too late.

All of these answers Legolas had realized, in a blinding rush, under the sagacious moon when Aragorn had kissed him, and this he had now confessed. One day, he knew, Aragorn would die, as all mortals did, and on that day, Legolas also knew, the sea's pull he would be unable to resist. He only hoped that there would be some companion, waiting on the lonely shores, to accompany him into the West. But those were thoughts for another day, and so he changed the subject.

"Actually, there is another reason that I was nervous."

"What is that?" Asked Aragorn, kindly, and stroking the long locks.

"Well, these feelings are very new to me," he said truthfully. Shyly - yet so candidly as to also be bold - and also alluring in the way he turned his head to the side. "I have never felt lust before."

"Oh ho," said Aragorn, with a suggestive wag of his brow. The playfulness of Legolas' words had not been lost on him. "Then I will have to show you what to do."

He pressed his weight down on the Elf, rolling his hips.

Legolas gasped, gripping Aragorn's shoulders, but there remained a mischievous smile on his lips. "You will have to."

The King began to run his hands up the silken shirt, to feel the skin underneath. He began to undo the fastenings of Legolas' tunic until it hung open. He pushed up the white undershirt, kissing every inch, and everywhere leaving tiny bruises. He could feel Legolas' fingers tangling in his hair. That the other, strong and powerful in his own right, let himself be so wholly dominated sent a thrill of excitement through him.

With a rascally leer, he unbuckled Legolas' belt, and made to unlace the dark blue leggings, sliding them dangerously low ere Legolas caught his hand. His fingers were like cold iron. Aragorn looked up, surprised. Yet there was still a cloudiness in the Elf's eyes - and also some unidentifiable emotion - so Aragorn began again to kiss the flat plane of his stomach, pushing up his shirt until it was past the hollow of his chest.

"Wait!" cried Legolas, pulling down the shirt and sitting up suddenly. It was then that Aragorn identified the elusive ghost in the dark orbs as wisdom and caring, not tinged so much with guilt, as with a warning. Aragorn froze, looking into them. Clearly, Legolas had realized something. Had he changed his mind? "You must swear to me that your love for Arwen is no longer. I will not let you do this, if still you love her."

A wave of simultaneous relief and regret passed over him. Relief, for he had feared that in some way he had insulted the other, and regret for the memory of that dead love, and that he had not remembered it on his own. Indeed, he had never explained the situation to Legolas.

Even so, Legolas' staunch righteousness made the King glow with pride. For it was not only righteousness, it was also loyalty. Not just to Arwen, but to all three of them. Legolas would not let himself be used, neither would he let Aragorn betray himself. Fortunately, Aragorn already knew the answer. His heart was filled with a new love, risen from the corpse of the old. And it was not for Arwen. He no longer felt remorse to proclaim that.

"I swear it. I love only you."

Legolas scrutinized him, as if delving into his soul. He narrowed his eyes, furrowing his brow, gaze sharp and penetrating. If there was any remnant of love for Arwen, he would not stand for it. Not out of jealousy. He would not stand for Aragorn mistaking lust for love and destroying any chance of renewing his relationship with the Queen.

But he could find no such remnant. Legolas' face softened, and he let go of his shirt to signify to the man that he had passed the test. Aragorn grinned.

"I pass?"

Legolas rubbed his chin in mock contemplation.

"I do not know, you will have to prove it."

"Oh, I can do that," said Aragorn, with a roguish gleam, pulling the other closer. Legolas yelped when two hands squeezed his backside, and strong hips moved between his legs. He felt a definite hardness against the inside of his thigh.

"Ah-"

Aragorn kissed him deeply, leaning him back to lay flat on the bed. He slid the tunic off of Legolas' shoulders; he grinned when he felt the Elf's hands on his own chest, undoing his fastenings and pulling off the short-sleeved shirt. As he straddled the other, he tugged his own undershirt over his head and off. His grin grew at the look on Legolas' face when he glanced back down. There was a blush, and an inhale, and widened eyes that had not missed the man's broad chest, or defined muscles as they had strained to remove the shirt. There was a glimmer in Aragorn's eyes. At last, he could read the attraction on Legolas' face as clearly as he was sure it was imprinted on his own.

Most amusing was the way he ghosted a curious palm over the hair that downed the man's body. Of course, Legolas did not have hair, and so he wondered at it. The Elf blushed deeper, having been caught staring. Aragorn smiled, and scooped up the slender hands and placed them on his hips, encouraging them to explore. Cautious at first, one trailed up the line of his back, the other slowly following. Then, as they grew braver, they skimmed over his hindquarters, gliding over the backs of his thighs, then back up to their place on his hips.

This time when the King swooped in for a kiss, the air was different. It was more dense, more sultry, and more sensuously passionate. The time for talk had passed. Now everything was intense and urgent. Aragorn could imagine the steam from the springs enveloping them. They moved their hips together, and the King elicited a low moan. A fire had spread in him, now raging in his loins. He slid his thumbs into the waist of Legolas' leggings, looking into his eyes for permission. Legolas lifted his hips ere Aragorn had to ask. He pulled them off, growling into Legolas' neck as he did so, biting at his ear. Legolas gasped, the coolness sweeping over his newly exposed lower parts.

Aragorn unbuckled his own belt, and quickly unlaced his breeches, groaning at the sudden freedom. The breeches hung around his thighs, and he impatiently shook them off. The King slipped between the Elf's legs. Legolas shuddered, his hands tightening where they gripped Aragorn's hips. Aragorn moaned, his eyes rolling back. Oh, how his body had needed this. He poised himself at the Elf's entrance, and he could hear the breath hitch, the grip tighten. Just as he was about to push inside, urged on by the muscled thighs at his sides, and the arched back, he caught himself. He could not do that.

Although he had never been intimate with another male before, as a healer, and as someone who was at least experienced with intercourse, he understood suddenly that what he had almost done would have been irresponsible to say the least. And painful. Not for him, of course, but most assuredly for his partner.

"You stopped," said Legolas, simply, and gazing up at him curiously.

"Yes," Aragorn said. "And it is a good thing, too."

"It is?"

Aragorn blinked. Clearly, Legolas had not been about to stop him. Why not?

Aragorn could have smacked himself. Legolas had never done this before; he was relying on the man, and whatever his body could tell him, to show him what to do. He would not have stopped him. From the affectionate expression on the Elf's face, Aragorn doubted whether Legolas would have stopped him even had it hurt. He thanked the Valar that he had caught himself.

"Yes, a very good thing."

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself enough to find a solution. He did not have anything to serve as a lubricant. He glanced around the room. There was nothing that would work. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spied something peculiar. On his top desk drawer there was stuck a piece of parchment. He could not read it in the dimness of his quarters.

"Legolas, what does that parchment say?" He asked, tossing his head in its direction. Legolas pushed himself up onto his elbows, perplexed.

"It says 'open me.' Why? Did you write that? It does not look like your writing -"

Aragorn leapt up and sprinted to the drawer, nearly tripping over the scattered garments. He flung it open. A tiny vial rolled wildly inside it, clinking back and forth against the wood. He snatched it up, ecstatic. He looked at the note. It was Arwen's elegant lettering. He pursed his lips; they twitched erratically into a smile. How had he ever married such a clever Elf-maid? He was truly astounded. While Arwen was a proper and virtuous Queen and was by no means wont to deal in these areas, she was also considerate. She must have known all along each step they would take. But it came as little surprise; always she seemed to intuitively predict him. He shook his head, awestruck, impressed, and infinitely grateful. Verily, she was brilliant.

"Aragorn, I really do not understand what you are doing," Legolas raised a fine brow at the man. He had sat up fully, scratching his head confusedly. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, most definitely not," said Aragorn, beaming uncontrollably as he walked back to the bed. Legolas looked at him, still puzzled. Aragorn resettled himself between the long legs. "We needed this," he proclaimed, holding out the vial, proudly, as if it were a prize. Legolas looked at him skeptically.

"What is it?"

To Legolas, it was a mere vial. To Aragorn, it was gold in liquid form.

"It is very important, suffice to say." The King pulled out the stopper, pouring some of the oily liquid onto his fingers. He spread it around with his thumb and pointer, following the pattern of their whorl. Aragorn's expression became suddenly more serious, the substance having brought with it a sense of realness to what they were about to do, and its implications. "Legolas, are you absolutely certain that you wish to do this?"

Legolas frowned, rubbing his chin. He looked at Aragorn, then elsewhere, then back to the King's kind, anxious eyes. Though they were filled with lust, it was no longer frightening or dangerous. And it was no longer the ominous doom that it had been in the hot springs. Now, even if it had doubled in its magnitude, it was mixed with love. Now he had restraint; he had proven, by considering the wellbeing of his partner, that he could be trusted. Aragorn held his breath.

The Elf continued to think, biting his bottom lip. He could not deny, either, that he, like the man, was filled with a powerful lust. At the springs, he had felt the first flickers of its flame. Now, he knew the temptation, and the dazedness of what his body could do to him. This alone might have been enough to coax out his consent. But he would not let himself be so wantonly swayed. He thought seriously. They both loved each other; there was no wrong in physically showing that love. Although he was nervous, as he had never done anything of this nature before, he was also excited. This would connect them. And what better day than the first of summer. Spring having been the time for the seeds of love to take root, the time of delicate touches and tentativeness, and summer the time for that seedling to flower and prosper, the time of maturation and ardor.

Legolas nodded. The King exhaled in relief. That was all he needed. He leapt upon the Elf's silent word, ravishing his lips, his tongue breaking past the defenses. He pushed open the willowy legs and lay in the valley they created.

"You will not regret it," said the man, looking into his eyes. Legolas felt his cheeks grow hot at their intensity. Aragorn began to prepare him, as best he could figure to do so. Legolas tensed, but Aragorn distracted him with kisses and gentle bites. He poured more oil from the vial, and also spread it over himself. It sent tremors through him. By now his passion had mounted to the breaking point. After more than a year of abstinence, he could wait not a moment longer. He lifted Legolas's hips just so, and pushed slowly in.

"Un!" Legolas knitted his brow. The Elf's breathing hitched through gritted teeth. It stung, and felt unnatural to have something inside him. While he had guessed that it would hurt, he had not realized how close a fit it would be. He cringed. Aragorn pushed in further.

For the man, the tightness and hotness were arresting. To go slowly was tortuous. Even as he was dimly aware of the pained expression beneath him, he wholly sheathed himself. Legolas gasped, his fingers digging into the skin of Aragorn's back. The King's eyes rolled back, with a moan. He might have found release with just that, their stomachs pressed against each other, the sharp hip bones jutting against his own. At last, they were his to take. Legolas had stiffened beneath him. Aragorn would have moved his hips, but Legolas' wince stopped him, and the staggered rise and fall of his chest.

"W-wait, a minute," panted the Elf, brow furrowed and jaw clenched. Still his breathing was uncontrolled. Aragorn had not given him time to adjust, and the consequence was that he had hurt him. He kissed the Elf's forehead trying to relax him; if Legolas had asked him to stop, truly it must have been painful. The man should have known to be more careful. Legolas took a deep breath, his body beginning to grow accustomed to the foreign feeling and the stretch. He nodded his head. "A-alright."

Tentatively, Aragorn began to move. Legolas hissed at the motion, but did not stop him. Aragorn pressed their lips together, teeth clashing. The Elf gasped and groaned into his mouth, and Aragorn happily swallowed the sounds. He began to move faster, and harder, a year's worth of pent up hunger raging to be sated.

Suddenly, Legolas jumped.

"Did I hurt you?" asked Aragorn, worriedly. There was a strange darkness to the other's eyes.

"N-no," stammered Legolas, equally perplexed. He could not explain it. His blush had deepened. Aragorn began to guess what had happened. "I - what did you just do?"

Aragorn's lips curled impishly. Though he knew very little about intercourse with other males, he had heard that there was a particular pleasure in it, for both parties concerned.

If he could just find that certain spot again.

"Do you mean this?" asked Aragorn, thrusting his hips hard and with careful aim. Legolas jumped again, his back arching, eyes instantly clouded.

"Y-yes," gasped the Elf, dazed. "Do that," he said, voice low and husky and laced with desire. Aragorn grinned, and did so, loving the way that the long legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper. He loved the gasps and groans, the murmur of his name, the quivering muscles below him, and the fingernails digging into his back. He thrust forcefully and quickly, his body taking control and any his stress and worry crumbling away. He bit the pale neck, growling, grunting, tangling his fingers in the silken strands of hair - he felt slender digits clenching in his own - the other hand pleasuring his partner. He was so close to release.

He thrust so that Legolas threw back his head, back arching magnificently, toes curling, and one hand twisting in the sheets. With a cry, he found realease. Aragorn moaned at the sight of it, until, in a moment of ecstasy he, too, found release.

"Ahha, my Lord," Legolas inhaled at the feel of hotness filling him, ere Aragorn collapsed heavily onto him.

They lay breathing heavily, Aragorn's fingers still entwined in the Elf's hair, and not yet pulling himself out. He could still feel the strong thighs around him. Finally, he was himself. Finally he was free of that clasp around his heart. He pressed their foreheads together, adoring the hot glow of Legolas' cheeks, and the fading lust in his eyes. His hair was in disarray around his head. He blinked slowly, eyes becoming clearer, as if waking from a cloudiness. One corner of his lips crimped into a subtle smile.

"Aragorn, you are crushing me," he breathed, with twinkling eyes.

"I rather like to," said the King, pushing down on him more, and kissing his warm cheek, and the long line of his neck. Legolas laughed like silver bells, pulling him closer, and uncaring of the man's weight. He kissed the King's stubbly cheek, returning the favor. A mischievous gleam flashed across his face.

He brushed the King's neck with a fingertip, pushing away the sweaty strands of dark hair. Then, as Aragorn had done to him, he kissed it, and left a distinct mark.

Aragorn flinched in surprise.

"Now how will I ever go to court?" he asked happily. In truth, he would confidently display it for all of Gondor to see, as evidence of its amorous giver.

"Look at my neck, it is only fair," said the Elf. Indeed, there was a trail of love bites leading down to his collar bones, and across his chest. Aragorn nodded in agreement.

"Yes, I suppose it is," he chuckled.

"And I think you could do to wear a few more," said Legolas, biting the King's bottom lip.

"And you as well, my playful one" said Aragorn, feeling himself stir again inside the lovely creature.

"Oh ho," said Legolas, rolling his hips upwards, "you are insatiable." He used his legs to pull the man deeper. Aragorn groaned.

"Aye, you would be too," said Aragorn, rolling his own hips, "if you had had no one in your bed for as long as I."

The Elf raised a fine brow.

"I have had no one in my bed for many more years than you, child" grinned Legolas, eyes beginning to darken.

"That being the case, I do not expect that either of us shall sleep overmuch this night."

"My Lord," Legolas looked up at the King from under the hoods of his eyelids, and the curtains of his lashes, with a cheeky charm in his tone, "Elves do not need sleep."

He tied his legs tight around the man, and in an instant had rearranged their positions. Aragorn gasped. Now the Elf straddled him. He bent to kiss the crook of Aragorn's jaw bone, hair falling in a drape over his shoulder.

"Now that you have shown me what to do, I can show you what I have learned," he breathed into the man's ear, running a hand across the broad chest and showing no disgust at the thick hair. This was the ruggedness in him, the earthiness in him, that could only be found in a Mirkwood Elf. Aragorn grabbed the slim hips, holding them in place and thrusting up, not able to wait a moment longer. Legolas at the same instant pushed himself down, grinning proudly at the moan he elicited from the man. Aragorn could not help it; he flipped their positions again, pinning the other. Legolas gasped, eyes wide, nails scratching across the brawny back above him, and head thrown wantonly back.

"You are too beautiful, Legolas," he growled, ravaging the other's lips. "I cannot control myself. Besides, I have much more to teach you ere the lark calls back the sun."

Legolas blushed, a smile on his face.

It was thus that they spent the night, wresting control from one another; Legolas would flip their position, and Aragorn would flip them back. But always in the end Legolas would happily yield.

So as the morning broke in the King's dusty window, it was to a couple intertwined. And snoozing. They had made love many times before the dawn, but Aragorn had at last exhausted himself, and managed, somehow, to also exhaust Legolas. They cleaned themselves, and slipped into a contented slumber, splayed haphazardly as if they had collapsed in the very act. The King's foot hung off the bed, the pillows strewn, and one of the Elf's long legs still wrapped around the man.


	8. Epilogue

_Author's Note: We have come to the end. Here it is, the final chapter (or epilogue, if you will). Thank you to all of you readers, all those who stuck with me from the start, and a special thanks to those who continued to comment all the way through. I really appreciate it, and I hope that you have enjoyed. I'd love to know what you thought overall!  
_

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When court adjourned that day, it was with whispers and rumors of the King's joyous mood. To all proposals, he granted gracious permission; the advisors wondered if he would remember half of what he had signed, or if he realized he had permitted one herdsman to free range five-hundred cattle on the Pelennor fields, a hairsbreadth from the orchards. Neither had they missed the mysterious mark on his neck, which had not been there the day before. When Faramir spotted similar marks on the neck of the tall Elven archer - who walked that day with a suspicious stiffness - his eyes widened.

The Steward scratched his head, and said nothing more. But when he passed the King in the halls, and was asked if he had seen Legolas, he gave him a wink, and a congratulatory nudge, and informed him that he had seen him in the gardens. He added, with a raise of the brow, and a tap of his neck, that His Majesty was looking particularly relieved that day, and if it was not induced by Elven company. Aragorn harrumphed, catching the sarcasm and huffing past the man as if insulted, but at the last moment winked back with a decidedly roguish glimmer.

"I knew it!" whispered Faramir, rubbing his chin, and hurrying off.

There was more to his excitement than happiness for his Lord. For he too, had placed a bet on who it was that would be the captor of the King's heart.

The collection of men in Minas Tirith who were closest with the King had known for some time of his predicament, and after many months of expecting him to find a lover, and after many months when he had not, these men had begun to speculate amongst themselves as to what manner of maid _could_ win his heart. All the others had put their money on coy ladies, with flowing hair and red lips. He had been the only one, thinking long and hard, to choose someone entirely different.

It had been a rash and far-fetched supposition, but there had been some wisdom in it. After all, how could the King not be enchanted by the ancient beauty and natural grace that sent swells of awe and marvel wherever it went? Considering that Aragorn had first fallen for the Evenstar, it seemed only natural that his next love be another Elf. It had only been a conjecture, a silly bet, nonsensical almost, and placed impulsively - inspired by the smallest of sparks in each other's eyes. Yet who could have known that he would be right! In all his years, he had never expected to win such a bet.

Two women passed him then, the citadel already abuzz with gossip. They were whispering to each other about the King's sudden jollity.

"Who do you think he chose?" asked the one.

"I do not know," replied the other, in a hushed tone, "but I have heard that she was a tall maiden. My brother said that he spied their silhouettes on a balcony, after the ball, and that she was nigh unto his own height."

"Alas, that it was too dark for him to see her face! I wonder who she is - she must be beautiful, whoever she is."

"Well, it is well in any case that he found someone. A man should not go so long without a woman."

"I pity the poor lady, though!"

"Why is that?"

"She must not have slept a wink."

The two giggled as they disappeared down the corridor. Faramir could not help but chuckle.

He thought for a moment. They would know soon enough who had spent the night in the royal bedchambers; there was no need for him to reveal that secret just yet. He would let Minas Tirith find out for itself, decided the Steward. He could collect the winnings anytime, so why not let it be some other time. Let the two lovers have some solace before the storm. Let the ladies gossip. He nodded, he would not give them away; but at the very least, he would have to tell the lady Eowyn. She would not believe her ears!

As the Steward went to write his lady a lengthy letter, down in the gardens, Aragorn had gone to find his Elf. Just as Faramir had said, Legolas was there, seated as if he were a sculpture in the green grass. Aragorn watched him fondly ere he descended the stairs. Legolas sat, legs folded, and chin propped in his palm, quietly observing the flowers and listening to the lap of the fountain. There was a lazy butterfly floating around the friendly daisies. It seemed as if he were daydreaming, but looking closely, it was clear that he was instead entranced in deep thought. He held a blossom betwixt his fingers, swirling it idly.

Aragorn approached unobtrusively, hands clasped behind his back.

"Well met, my Lord," said Legolas without turning. He had known from the footsteps on the stairs who it was. He continued to watch the flowers, as the light breeze fluttered their petals. Aragorn sat down next to him, looking at him curiously.

"How are you, Legolas?"

"Oh, fine," he hummed, smelling the flower that he held. His wrist was wrapped, now, skillfully and taut, bound by the King's healing hands.

"How is your wrist?" asked Aragorn, nevertheless. He noticed how Legolas had left it rest carefully on a knee.

"Also fine." He lifted it as proof. "It feels much better," he added passively. He remained distracted, as if he were yet pondering the blossoms and butterflies and bubbling water. But the purse of his lips spoke otherwise. He puffed an errant length of hair from his face, but it fell back into its erstwhile place. Aragorn brushed it aside.

"Are you certain you are well?" asked the King, concerned at the Elf's inattentiveness. Aragorn hoped that it was not because he regretted last night. Although he knew that Legolas had thoroughly thought everything through, Aragorn could not wholly abandon the simple human fear that the Elf could have been mistaken, and that he was now bemoaning his decision. Legolas seemed to guess the man's line of thought, or to pick up on his emotions. He turned, eyes kind, and granted him a doting smile that banished Aragorn's insecurities at once, the garden seeming to brighten with it. He ran his hand through the soft hair, breathing in the familiar scent, fragrant as always. "There is nothing bothering you, then?"

Legolas sighed, twirling the flower stem again. He lay back to rest his head in the King's lap. Aragorn twisted his fingers through the silken strands.

"What is the matter?" he asked worriedly, resting a hand on the Elf's chest. Legolas sighed again. He gestured up to the corridor above. At first, there was nothing there. Then two ladies rounded the corner, giggling amongst themselves. Although Aragorn could not hear what they were saying, Legolas could.

"There are rumors," he explained simply. Aragorn laughed lightly.

"Is that all it is?"

Legolas frowned.

"No, it is not the rumors that I mind." He glanced up at the King, "it is what will happen when the rumors speak the truth. That is what worries me."

"Why is that?"

"Well, they have all assumed that I am a woman. What will they think when they learn that I am not?"

"Hmm," said Aragorn, trailing his fingers up and down a strong arm. Legolas did have a point. He had not thought overmuch about that detail. "I suppose I could have you dress in skirts and petticoats. Then they might never know the difference."

Legolas rolled his eyes, brushing the soft petals absently over his lips.

"I do not think that your plan will work," he replied, "there are some here who know me."

Aragorn nodded.

"That is true." The man studied the elegant slope of the Elf's nose, and the gentle pout of his lips. "But we could abscond to some other place, whither no one would recognize our faces," he said with a smile. Legolas sighed, tucking the flower safely behind his ear, and folding his hands over Aragorn's on his chest. He ran his smooth fingers over the rough and weathered ones, pensive, ere they were still.

"That is one option," he said, "but I do hope it is in jest, as your Kingdom would be distressed by your disappearance."

Aragorn shrugged, tapping the Elf under the chin.

"It is half jest." He gazed down at the swirling flecks of color in Legolas' eyes, at the reflection of the blue skies and puffing clouds, and at the long lashes. He leaned in close, the dark specks of their pupils interlocking. "But to tell you the truth, Legolas, I do not care what anyone thinks. They cannot stop me from loving you."

He closed the remaining distance between them, and kissed the soft smiling lips, Legolas tilting up his chin to meet his more closely.

"You are as bad as Gimli, as far as flattery," grinned the Elf.

"Well, I learned from the best," replied the man, their noses brushing together. "Besides, it is not flattery if it is honesty. If I wished to flatter you, I would speak of your handsomeness, or the way that your voice causes my heart to quiver."

Legolas rolled his eyes, standing up with a scoff. Aragorn chuckled.

"But I suppose that would be honesty, as well," called Aragorn after him, and he could not help but laugh at the blush, and stubborn glare. Legolas tossed the flower at him.

"You are lucky that I love you," he retorted, trailing his hand lightly along the banister, as if to draw the other after. And when it was clear that he was headed for the King's bedchambers, Aragorn scrambled after.

- END-


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